THE  GIFT  OF 

FLORENCE  V.  V.  DICKEY 

TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  DONALD  R.  DICKEY 

LIBRARY 
OF  VERTEBRATE  ZOOLOGY 


THE   SPORT  OF  BIRD   STUDY 


THE   SPORT  OF 
BIRDSTUDY 

A    BOOK    FOR    YOUNG    OR    ACTIVE    PEOPLE 
BY 

HERBERT  KEIGHTLEY  JOB 

Author  of  "How   To  Study  Birds,"  "Wild   Wings"  and  "Among 

The  Water-Fowl."    Member  of  The  American  Ornithologists' 

Union,  etc. 

Second  Edition  Revised 

PROFUSELY   ILLUSTRATED    WITH   PHOTOGRAPHS 
FROM  LIFE   BY   THE   AUTHOR 


NEW    YORK 
OUTING    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

1911 


Copyright,  1908,  by 

THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


QL 
4,76 


TO  MY  SON 
GEORGE  CURTISS  JOB 

and  all  other 
Real  Live  American  Boys 


FOREWORD 

Since  this  book  was  first  published,  three  years  ago, 
there  has  been  a  constantly  increasing  interest  in  bird- 
life.  Our  Nation  is  becoming  aroused  and  alarmed  over 
the  decrease  in  birds  and  the  disappearance  of  various 
species,  and  means  are  being  tried — educational,  eco- 
nomic, and  legislative — to  save  the  birds  and  restore 
them  to  a  normal  abundance.  In  Connecticut,  for  ex- 
ample, the  author  of  this  book  has  recently  been  ap- 
pointed State  Ornithologist.  He  is  issuing  informing 
articles  through  the  State  press,  preparing  educational 
material  for  the  schools  of  the  State,  conducting  experi- 
ments in  the  artificial  propagation  of  game  birds,  and 
other  scientific  and  educational  work  in  reference  to  our 
wild  birds,  further  to  interest  and  arouse  the  public. 
Similar  work  is  also  being  conducted  or  started  in  other 
States. 

Radical  changes  are  being  brought  about  in  the  atti- 
tude of  sportsmen,  caused  by  a  feeling  of  real  alarm 
over  the  disappearance  of  game.  Protective  Associa- 
tions are  springing  up  everywhere,  not  to  demand  more 
privileges,  but  frequently  to  curtail  their  own  rights 
through  laws  involving  real  personal  sacrifice,  and  are 
joining  hands  in  such  work  as  that  of  the  Audubon  So- 
cieties, feeling  that  the  aims  and  interests  of  all  lovers 
of  wild  birds  are  identical.  Commercial  greed  organ- 
ized to  destroy  bird-life,  with  selfish  avarice,  as  repre- 
sented by  market  hunting,  cold  storage,  and  millinery 
interests,  is  waging  a  losing  fight,  and  each  year  is  re- 


FOREWORD 

ceiving  telling  blows,  through  the  arousing  of  the  public 
conscience. 

One  of  the  fine  signs  of  the  times  is  the  taking  up  by 
the  great  movement  of  The  Boy  Scouts,  the  study  and 
protection  of  birds  and  the  hunting  of  them  with  the 
camera  or  with  field-glass  and  note-book.  Instead  of 
teaching  that  skill  in  woodcraft  means  expertness  in 
killing,  the  leaders  in  this  movement  are  enthusing  the 
Scouts  with  "The  New  Hunting."  The  schools  are  also 
taking  up  these  "observation  studies"  of  birds  and  Na- 
ture as  never  before. 

The  key,  in  fact,  of  the  situation  seems  to  be  the 
discovery  by  the  youth  of  our  country  that  our  wild 
birds  are  tremendously  interesting,  and  that  the  making 
of  their  acquaintance  in  their  wild  haunts  is  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  of  sports.  To  help  bring  this  about 
more  and  more,  is  the  hope  and  purpose  in  putting  forth 
this  book. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  APPEAL  OF  THE  SPORT 1 

II    HUNTING  GAME-BIRDS  WITH  THE  CAMERA.     (Upland  Game 

Birds.)         . 13 

III  THE  ROBBERS  OF  THE  FALLS,  AND  OTHERS.     (Hawks.)     .  34 

IV  THE  BIRD  OF  NIGHT.     (Owls.) 57 

V    STRANGE  BED-FELLOWS.     (Cuckoos  and  Kingfishers.)         .  77 

VI  KNIGHTS  OF  THE  CHISEL.     (Woodpeckers.)       .         .         .87 

VII  BIRDS  WITH  A  HANDICAP.     (Goatsuckers  and  Hummers.)     101 

VIII  PROFESSIONAL  FLY-CATCHING.     (Flycatchers.)  .         .         .   124 

IX  CROW  RELATIVES.     (Crows,  Jays,  Blackbirds,  etc.)  .         .   139 

X  A  PUZZLE  IN  BIRDS.     (Finches,  Sparrows,  etc.)         .         .  156 

XI  OUR  PRICELESS  Sw ALLOWS  AND  SWIFTS  .         .         .         .178 

XII  FOUR  NEIGHBORS  DIVERSE.     (Tanagers,  Waxwings,  Shrikes, 

Vireos.) 191 

XIII  FEATHERED  GEMS.     (The  Warblers.)        .         .         .         .206 

XIV  THRUSH  COUSINS.     (Thrashers,  Wrens,  Titmice,  Kinglets, 

Thrushes,  etc.)     .         .  230 

XV    WATER-BIRD  WAIFS.     (Wading  and  Swimming  Birds.)      .  251 

THE  BIRD-HOUSE  OF  SCIENCE  OF  N.  E.  NORTH  AMERICA   .  277 

A  BIRD  CALENDAR          .         .         .         .  .         .  280 

INDEX 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Broad-winged  Hawk Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Dusky  or  Black  Duck 2 

Great  Horned  Owl  incubating 4 

Ruffed  Grouse  on  nest         ........  6 

Nighthawk  incubating;  normal  pose 8 

Northern  Yellow-throat  (female)  about  to  feed  young     .         .         .10 

Woodcock  on  nest 16 

Woodcock  on  nest,  showing  surroundings 20 

Young  Woodcock 20 

Wilson's  Snipe 22 

Bob  White  on  nest      . 24 

Nest  and  brood  of  Quail 24 

Ruffed  Grouse  incubating 30 

Ruffed  Grouse  in  confinement      .......  30 

Broad-winged  Hawk  on  nest 42 

Young  Broad-wings 46 

Home  life  of  the  Red-tailed  Hawk        ..-.*.         .         .         .50 

Red-tailed  Hawk 50 

Three  little  Sharp-shinned  Hawks 54 

Nest  of  Marsh  Hawk 54 

Nest  of  Red-shouldered  Hawk 58 

The  Cooper's  Hawks'  nest  by  the  falls 58 

Young  Barred  Owl 62 

Great  Horned  Owl 62 

Young  Long-eared  Owl  hiding 66 

ix  *- 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Young  Long-cared  Owls 66 

Young  Screech  Owl  in  position  of  defense 72 

Screech  Owl 72 

"On  it  sat  a  Black-billed  Cuckoo" 78 

Nest  of  Black-billed  Cuckoo 80 

Young  Black-billed  Cuckoos  in  nest 80 

Kingfisher  (adult) 82 

Young  Kingfisher  leaving  nest-burrow 84 

Young  Kingfishers 84 

"A  Flicker  stuck  its  head  out  of  the  nest-hole"     .          .          .          .90 

Flicker,  or  Yellow-hammer  (female),  feeding  young  in  hole     .          .  90 

Family  of  Young  Flickers 94 

Ned  got  the  Hairy  Woodpecker 98 

Downy  Woodpecker  attracted  by  suet  .         .         .         .         .         .98 

Downy  Woodpecker .98 

Whippoorwill  on  nest  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .106 

Young  Whippoorwills  in  nest 106 

Nighthawk 108 

Young  Nighthawks 108 

Nighthawk  on  eggs,  alarmed 110 

Nighthawk  by  her  eggs 110 

Hummer  "in  the  midst  of  the  feeding  comedy"     .          .          .          .116 

Humming  Bird  incubating 116 

Hummer  and  young   .........  120 

Young  Hummers  in  nest 120 

Kingbird  on  nest         .........  124 

Kingbird  scolding 126 

The  entire  Kingbird  family 126 

Phoebe  and  her  new  husband  in  the  garden            ....  130 

Phcebe  on  nest 130 

Snapshot  of  Wood  Pewee 134 

Young  Least  Flycatcher 134 

The  Alder  Flycatcher 136 

X 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PA.OB 


Typical  nest  of  Alder  Flycatcher 138 

Alder  Flycatcher 138 

Young  Crows  in  nest .          .   140 

Young  Crows     . 142 

Blue  Jay   .         .  146 

Rusty  Grackle   .         .         . 148 

Nest  of  Meadowlark 148 

Nest  of  Orchard  Oriole 150 

Young  Orchard  Orioles 150 

Male  Bobolinks 152 

Five  young  Bobolinks  in  nest 152 

Tree  Sparrow  eating  hay  seed  thrown  on  the  snow         .         .         .160 

Pine  Grosbeak  about  to  drink 160 

Female  Rose-breasted  Grosbeak  incubating 162 

Pair  of  White- winged  Crossbills 162 

Young  Field  Sparrows  in  nest 164 

Young  Goldfinches,  ready  to  leave  nest 164 

Nest  of  Swamp  Sparrow      .         . 170 

Nest  of  Vesper  Sparrow      .         . 170 

Nest  of  Chippy .         .        -.         .         , 172 

Chipping  Sparrows 172 

Young  Barn  Swallows  on  nest 180 

Young  Barn  Swallow  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .180 

Eave  Swallows 182 

Fledgling  Eave  Swallow       .         ...         v         .         .         .         .182 

Tree  Swallow  (male)  and  nest      . 184 

Tree  Swallow 184 

Young  Tree  Swallows 184 

Purple  Martins  near  their  nest  in  hole  of  stub       .          .          .          .186 

Bank  Swallow  at  nest — hole  in  gravel  bank 186 

Young  Chimney  Swifts  by  their  nest 188 

Young  Chimney  Swift 188 

Nest  of  Scarlet  Tanager 194 

xi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Young  Cedar  Waxwings 194 

Red-eyed  Vireo  incubating  ........  202 

Red-eyed  Vireo  near  young 202 

Red-eyed  Vireo  feeding  young  Cowbirds        .....  204 

Black  and  White  Creeping  Warbler 208 

Black  and  White  Creeping  Warbler  on  nest 208 

Nest  of  Black-throated  Blue  Warbler 218 

Nest  of  Yellow-breasted  Chat 218 

Oven-bird  on  nest 222 

Louisiana  Water  Thrush  on  nest 222 

Redstart  on  nest 224 

Chestnut-sided  Warbler  on  nest 224 

Nest  of  Chestnut-sided  Warbler 226 

The  condition  of  the  Chestnut-sided  Warbler's  nest  two  days'  later  .  226 
Yellow  Warbler  feeding  young  in  nest  .         .         .         .         .         .228 

Northern  Yellow-throat .  .,         .228 

Brown  Thrasher  (male)  and  young 234 

Brown  Thrasher  (female) 236 

Male  Brown  Thrasher,  shielding  young  in  nest     ....  236 
Catbird  in  shrubbery  .........  238 

Catbird  on  nest 238 

House  Wren  entering  nest 240 

House  Wren  emerging  from  nest  in  old  can  .....  240 

Short-billed  Marsh  Wren 242 

Nest  of  Short-billed  Marsh  Wren 242 

Chickadees 244 

White-breasted  Nuthatch     . 244 

Wood  Thrush  incubating 250 

Young  Wood  Thrushers,  ready  to  leave  nest  ....   250 

Spotted  Sandpiper  scolding          .......  254 

Semi-palmated  Sandpiper  feeding 254 

Nest  of  Sora 258 

Young  American  Bitterni 458 

xii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FAGS 

Young  Least  Bittern  .........  260 

Green  Heron  and  nest          ........  262 

Green  Heron  incubating      ........  262 

Young  Wood  Duck    ......         .         .         .266 

The  Horned  Grebe  ashore  ........  270 

Red-breasted  Merganser      .         .         .          .          .         .          .          .272 

The  Horned  Grebe     .  .  272 


Kill 


THE  SPORT  OF  BIRD   STUDY 


THE  SPORT  OF   BIRD  STUDY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   APPEAL   OF  THE   SPORT 

I'VE  got  the  Wood  Duck,  I've  got  the  Wood  Duck, 
I've  got  him,  I've  got  him!"  This  excited 
yelling  brought  me  through  the  thicket  in  a 
hurry,  out  to  the  margin  of  the  boggy  pond.  I  arrived 
just  in  time  to  see  my  fifteen-year-old  enthusiast  caper- 
ing like  a  jumping-jack,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  flying 
duck  disappearing  like  a  meteor. 

"Got  him,  have  you?"  I  said.  "Produce  him,  then! 
Spread  him  out  and  let's  look  him  over.  Then  we'll 
have  roast  duck!" 

"He's  just  gone  out  there  through  those  trees,"  cried 
Ned,  indicating  the  course  of  the  recent  meteorite, "  and 
I'm  dead  sure  it's  a  Wood  Duck,  positive !  That  makes 
number  149  on  my  year's  list,  and  I  know  there's  a 
brood  of  Black  Ducks  in  here,  too;  I  heard  one  quack- 
ing. If  I  see  them,  that  will  make  150.  Oh,  it  just 
makes  me  crazy!" 

"Yes,  that  was  a  Wood  Duck  all  right.  I  saw  it  go," 
I  replied,  "and  you've  certainly  got  him  to  your  credit, 

1 


THE   APPEAL    OF    THE    SPORT 

but  you  mustn't  get  so  excited  this  hot  August  weather, 
or  you'll  have  a  sunstroke." 

"Hang  the  sunstroke,"  exclaimed  Ned,  "I'm  awful 
glad  you  brought  me  in  here.  You  said  I'd  get  the 
Wood  Duck,  but  I'd  tried  so  many  times  I  was  afraid 
I'd  miss  it  again.  This  is  certainly  a  dandy  place,  and 
I'm  coming  here  every  day  for  awhile.  But  when  is 
the  best  time  of  day  for  ducks?  I  want  to  see  the 
whole  flock  of  Wood  Ducks,  and  of  course  the  Black 
Ducks,  though  I  saw  some  of  those  fellows  last  year." 

"You  would  be  liable  to  start  them  up  at  any  time, 
while  they  are  resting  and  sunning  themselves  in  the 
swamp,"  I  told  him,  "but  at  dusk  they  begin  to  fly 
around  to  feed,  and  dawn  is  another  good  time,  too. 
But  it  would  be  hard  for  you  to  get  here  so  early,  and 
the  grass  would  be  drenching  wet." 

"Hard!"  he  cried.  "You're  a  great  man  to  talk  so, 
for  I've  heard  you  tell  of  your  getting  up  at  two  and 
driving  twenty  miles  before  light  to  shoot  ducks  in  the 
fall.  Don't  you  think  I've  got  some  sporting  blood  as 
well  as  yourself,  even  if  I  don't  murder  them  the  way 
you  used  to?" 

"Well,  now,  you're  getting  on  to  a  rather  delicate 
subject,"  I  replied.  "I  know  you're  an  early  bird,  and 
I'm  glad  you  are  an  enthusiast,  and  that  we  both  know 
how  to  find  more  fun  with  the  birds  than  by  killing 
them.  Of  course  there's  nothing  wrong  in  shooting 
lawful  game  in  moderation,  but  it's  simply  this,  that 
the  new  way  is  so  much  better  than  the  old  that  we 


THE   APPEAL   OF    THE    SPORT 

don't  care  for  shooting.  Gunners  can  hunt  only  in  the 
fall,  but  our  hunting  lasts  the  whole  year.  Their 
game,  too,  is  limited  to  a  few  kinds,  while  we  have 
*  every  sort  of  bird  that  flies." 

So  we  talked  along  till  we  came  to  the  village,  agreeing 
to  go  to  the  pond  next  day  at  dusk  and  try  to  "get"  the 
Black  Duck. 

While  Ned  is  gone,  it  is  a  good  chance  to  talk  behind 
his  back  and  tell  a  little  about  him. 

A  great  many  people  nowadays  are  interested  in 
birds,  and  many  schools  have  taken  it  up  as  a  study 
and  recreation  combined.  This  is  the  case  in  the  school 
which  Ned  attends.  They  have  colored  pictures  of 
native  birds  pinned  up  on  the  walls,  and  charts  which 
explain  in  an  easy  way  the  classification  of  birds,  the 
groups  into  which  they  are  divided,  and  which  kinds, 
or  species,  of  birds  are  likely  to  be  found  in  that  locality, 
and  at  what  seasons.  The  teachers  take  parties  of 
their  pupils  out  on  excursions  or  "bird  walks,"  noticing 
the  flowers  and  trees  as  well,  or  any  other  interesting 
objects,  and  grand  good  times  they  have.  Several 
members  of  a  party  have  field  or  opera  glasses  to  see 
the  shier  birds  more  plainly,  and  so  tell  what  they  are. 
These  boys  or  girls  soon  come  to  recognize  all  the  com- 
mon birds  about  as  far  off  as  they  can  see  them,  and  are 
able  to  give  them  their  right  names.  At  school  they 
keep  a  list  of  the  birds  seen  and  identified  during  the 
year,  and  each  scholar  is  given  credit  for  the  ones  he  is 
the  first  to  find,  so  that  competition  becomes  very  keen. 

3 


THE   APPEAL   OF    THE    SPORT 

One  day  I  went  out  to  the  athletic  field  to  see  the 
boys  play  a  game  of  baseball.  It  was  the  fifth  of  May, 
and  just  across  the  road  which  bordered  the  field  I  saw 
and  heard  two  male  Bobolinks,  the  first  arrivals  in 
that  locality.  I  wondered  whether  the  boys  would 
notice  them,  but  they  did,  and  after  the  game  there 
was  a  grand  race  to  report  the  Bobolink  for  the  list. 

Out  of  school  hours  some  of  the  boys,  on  their  own 
hook,  scour  the  fields  and  woods  for  miles  around,  and 
Ned  is  one  of  these.  Young  as  he  is,  he  has  already 
come  to  know  the  birds  wonderfully  well,  and  he  seldom 
meets  one  he  cannot  recognize,  if  only  he  has  a  good 
glance  at  it.  There  is  keen  rivalry  among  these  boys 
as  to  who  can  see  and  identify  the  largest  number  of 
kinds  of  birds  each  year.  This  sends  them  actively 
scouring  around  outdoors  in  all  sorts  of  places,  and  at 
all  times,  too,  winter  as  well  as  summer.  It  is  splendid 
exercise,  especially  the  climbing  of  the  steep  wooded 
hills,  up  over  the  rocks,  scrambling  through  thickets  of 
mountain  laurel.  There  is  genuine  sport  in  this  in 
itself,  yet  an  incentive,  such  as  an  old  Hoot  Owl  some- 
where in  those  wild,  secluded  woods  up  near  the  sum- 
mit, makes  it  doubly  exciting.  There  are  plenty  of 
Ruffed  Grouse  in  these  fastnesses  which  can  be  pur- 
sued, either  with  the  gun  in  the  fall,  or  without  the  gun 
at  any  time — to  find  their  nests,  to  watch  the  mother 
lead  her  brood,  to  learn  where  they  stay  at  different 
hours  of  the  day,  where  they  go  when  flushed,  how 
many  times  one  can  put  up  the  same  bird,  and  so  on. 

4 


Great  Horned  Owl  incubating     "An  incentive  such  as  an  old  Hoot  Owl"  (p.  4). 


THE   APPEAL,   OF   THE    SPORT 

The  wild  places  also  contain  birds  which  are  rare,  or 
not  so  well  known,  and  there  is  always  a  feeling  of 
expectancy  and  excitement,  because  at  any  moment  t 
something  may  turn  up.  This  is  particularly  true  of 
the  seasons  of  migration,  in  spring  and  fall.  Spring  is 
inspiring,  with  its  soft  breezes  and  opening  flowers,  the 
fragrant  odors  of  earth  and  woods,  the  procession  of 
the  birds  in  their  choicest  plumages,  full  of  song  and 
joy.  Autumn  is  energizing  with  its  snappy  air,  bidding 
one  be  active,  the  falling  of  the  nuts,  the  whirring  flight 
of  game  birds,  the  restless  activity  of  passing  migrant 
hordes  whose  song  is  now  dissolved  into  motion.  As 
the  leaves  shower  down,  how  fine  it  is  to  see  through 
the  woods  again,  and  to  get  the  grand  views  from  the 
hillsides. 

Best  of  all,  perhaps,  is  the  nesting  season.  Ned  does 
not  collect  eggs,  because  there  are  museums  available, 
and  there  is  nothing  worth  while  to  be  learned  from 
the  mere  possession  of  eggshells  of  his  own.  Indeed, 
he  is  a  member  of  the  Audubon  Society,  whose  motto 
is  "A  bird  in  the  bush  is  worth  two  in  the  hand," 
and  prefers  to  have  plenty  of  birds  to  see  and  enjoy 
rather  than  to  join  in  the  robbing  and  killing  which  is 
stripping  this  country  of  its  beautiful  wild  life.  In 
nesting  time  the  birds  are  more  familiar  and  intimate. 
Find  a  nest,  and  one  can  then  visit  the  bird  at  will, 
watch  the  pretty  creatures  at  close  range,  learn  their 
habits,  how  the  young  are  fed  and  cared  for,  and  also 
secure  photographs  from  life.  Besides,  one  learns  the 


THE   APPEAL    OF    THE    SPORT 

haunts  of  the  various  birds,  the  times  each  season  when 
the  different  species  breed,  how  they  build  their  nests, 
and  any  number  of  other  interesting  things. 

The  boys,  however,  do  not  have  this  fun  all  to  them- 
selves. It  appeals  just  exactly  as  much  to  strong, 
active  men.  I  began  when  I  was  a  young  boy,  and 
now,  after  thirty  years  of  the  sport,  I  like  it  just  as  well 
as  ever.  And  there  are  thousands,  increasing  thou- 
sands, of  men  who  have  the  same  feeling.  The  sport 
has  in  it  the  elements  of  adventure  and  activity,  just 
the  thing  to  alternate  with  the  strain  and  confinement 
of  professional  or  business  life,  a  means  of  health  and 
strength,  of  keeping  enthusiasm  and  youthful  freshness. 
Of  course  any  outdoor  sport  is  useful  in  this  direction, 
yet  the  quest  of  the  study  of  Nature,  in  some  of  its 
departments,  has  special  advantages  for  providing 
refreshing  resource  for  the  mind,  as  well  as  for  the 
body.  Bird  study  has  a  peculiar  inducement  in  that 
it  is  seasonable  the  year  round,  and  deals  with  living 
subjects,  which  are  beautiful  and  of  special  fascination 
because  of  their  power  of  flight.  The  gunner  and  the 
fisherman  at  the  close  of  their  short  season — all  too 
brief  it  seems — put  away  their  implements  of  the  chase 
with  regret,  for  it  will  be  many  long  months  before  it 
will  be  time  again  to  start  out.  But  the  ornithologist 
may  go  whenever  his  time  permits,  when  the  longing 
for  the  wild  floods  his  soul. 

If  there  were  any  question  of  the  right  of  bird  study 
to  rank  as  a  sport,  and  a  leading  one  at  that,  a  certain 

6 


THE    APPEAL    OF    THE    SPORT 

discovery,  made  not  many  years  ago,  banishes  all  pos- 
sible doubt.  This  was  the  discovery  that  photography 
could  be  employed  in  bird  study  with  splendid  suc- 
cess. At  once  this  gave  to  the  bird  student  a  weapon, 
an  implement,  putting  him  in  the  class  of  sportsmen. 
Nearly  everyone  now  knows  about  this  new  thing 
which  is,  indeed,  a  sport  by  itself,  "hunting  with  the 
camera."  This  is  not  confined  to  any  one  department 
of  natural  history,  but  is  the  capture  upon  a  photo- 
graphic plate  of  the  image  of  any  wild  living  creature — 
mammal,  bird,  fish,  or  even  insect.  Birds  offer  special 
inducements  for  this  pursuit,  as  they  are  far  more 
numerous  than  the  wild  mammals.  Moreover,  fish 
can  seldom  be  photographed  save  in  captivity,  and 
insects  are  small  and  not  popular. 

Studying  bird  and  animal  life  with  the  camera  cer- 
tainly is  a  splendid  sport.  It  destroys  no  Me,  yet  yields 
results  far  superior  to  those  of  gun  and  flesh-pot  in  our 
stage  of  civilization  where  we  need  not  shoot  to  eat. 
How  often  nowadays  one  reads  the  admission  of  some 
hunter  who  comes  close  upon  some  fine  game,  that  he 
wished  he  had  had  a  camera  instead  of  his  gun.  To 
shoot  successfully  with  the  camera  requires  far  more 
skill,  nerve,  patience,  brain-power,  than  with  the  gun, 
and  yet  is  not  hard  enough  to  be  impracticable.  In 
the  highest  essentials  of  sport,  to  my  mind,  the  camera 
stands  far  ahead  of  the  gun. 

My  boy  friend,  of  course,  has  caught  the  fever,  and 
has  a  lightly-built  long-focus  camera,  using  a  4x5  inch 


THE  APPEAL  OF  THE  SPORT, 

plate,  the  very  thing  to  begin  with.  I  have  one  much 
like  his  except  that  mine  has  rather  longer  bellows,  so 
as  to  allow  the  use  of  the  single  members  of  the  doublet 
lens,  and  a  larger  size  of  lens  at  that,  one  intended  for 
the  next  larger  size  of  camera.  This  gives  a  larger 
image  of  a  bird  at  a  given  distance,  and  is  very  useful 
with  shy  birds,  or  when  one  has  to  climb  and  photo- 
graph from  tree  to  tree,  or  from  branch  to  branch,  and 
cannot  get  as  near  as  is  desirable  to  one's  subject. 
Later  Ned  will  probably  get  one  like  mine,  and,  if  he 
succeeds  well  enough  to  warrant  the  outlay,  a  reflecting 
camera  for  photographing  birds  on  the  wing.  These 
are  costly  and  require  a  rapid  and  expensive  lens. 
A  4x5  size,  long-focus,  is  best  for  the  purposes  of  most 
people,  though  a  5x7,  if  not  of  too  heavy  a  make,  has 
longer  bellows,  and  admits  of  a  larger  lens. 

This  sport  of  bird  study  can  be  fitted  to  any  person 
and  any  need.  Pursued  to  the  full  it  means  adventure 
on  land  and  water,  hardihood,  climbing  trees  or  cliffs, 
danger,  travel  and  exploration  to  the  remotest  parts  of 
the  earth,  if  one  wish.  But  it  can  be  limited  to  ac- 
cessible local  birds,  the  smaller  birds  of  garden  or  field, 
in  which  even  an  invalid  can  take  a  world  of  comfort. 
A  multitude  of  girls  and  women  in  these  days  are  de- 
voted to  it.  Though  they  do  not  usually  venture,  for 
instance,  upon  climbing  lofty  trees  to  inspect  hawks' 
nests,  like  their  brothers,  many  of  them  have  done  fine 
work  and  made  valuable  contributions  to  science.  The 
girls  in  the  high  school,  not  far  from  the  one  which  Ned 

8 


THE   APPEAL   OF    THE    SPORT 

attends,  carry  on  a  keen  rivalry  with  the  boys  in  this 
bird  study  sport,  and  not  infrequently  bear  off  the 
laurels,  as  in  getting  the  first  record  of  the  season  of 
some  species,  or  some  new  one  for  the  list,  or  in  the 
prize  photographic  competitions  in  the  magazines  for 
the  best  pictures  of  wild  birds  or  animals  from  life.  So 
there  is  room  in  the  sport  for  all,  and  whole  families, 
parents  and  children,  may  all  be  bird-study  sportsmen ! 

In  writing  this  book  I  have  in  my  heart  a  very 
warm  place  for  the  boys  and  young  men  who  live  in 
the  country.  Some  think  that  life  in  the  country  is 
dull,  and  long  to  get  upon  city  pavements.  But  if  I 
can  get  them  to  catch  my  spirit,  they  will  change  their 
minds,  and  country  life  will  take  on  new  interest  and 
joy.  Though  I  was  born  and  brought  up  in  the  city, 
the  country  was  where  I  wanted  to  be.  On  every 
Saturday  holiday,  and  on  many  an  afternoon  after 
school,  I  might  have  been  seen  making  tracks  for 
woods  or  waters.  During  spring  and  Christmas  vaca- 
tions I  would  take  the  train  for  Cape  Cod.  I  never  can 
get  over  the  peculiar  thrill  which  I  felt  whenever  I 
crossed  the  boundary  of  a  "Cape"  town  and  felt  that  I 
was  actually  on  Cape  Cod.  Somehow  it  seemed  like 
sacred  ground,  a  land  of  bliss  unspeakable.  I  was 
under  a  spell  of  excitement,  of  exhilaration.  It  was 
country,  bird  country — "God's  country,"  as  they  say 
out  West. 

A  country  town  appeals  to  me  as  a  sort  of  gold  mine. 
Those  wooded  hills  are  treasure  houses,  these  swamps 

9 


THE   APPEAL    OF    THE    SPORT 

are  more  luscious  than  marsh  mallows,  those  field' 
produce  harvests  of  rarities.  I  am  eager  to  start  forth 
and  ramble  on,  to  seize  and  conquer  this  rich  province 
with  mind  and  eye,  to  make  it  mine.  Nothing  do  I 
care  to  own  it,  as  other  men  do,  and  pay  taxes,  if  they 
will  but  tolerate  my  roamings,  letting  me  visit,  watch, 
study,  photograph  its  glorious  wild  citizens.  Really  I 
pity  the  person  who  cannot  enjoy  the  country,  who  has 
so  few  resources  of  mind  as  to  need  to  be  amused  by 
the  passing  throng,  who  must  forever  get,  in  order  to  be 
happy,  and  has  little  or  nothing  to  give. 

I  want  to  start  out  many  healthy  boys,  girls  and 
youth  on  this  enticing  combination  of  sport  and  study 
to  enlarge  their  lives,  and  make  them  happier  and  more 
contented  with  their  lot  in  life.  So  I  shall  try,  with  the 
help  of  my  lively  young  enthusiast  and  companion,  to 
show  that  ornithology,  or  bird  study,  can  be  made  a 
live  thing,  a  sport,  a  fine  pursuit  for  any  active  person, 
as  it  has  surely  proved  to  be  for  a  growing  boy  like  Ned. 
Sometimes,  to  inspire  and  educate  him,  I  take  him  off 
with  me  to  some  wild  and  distant  region,  to  camp  out 
and  rough  it,  and  develop  his  manliness  and  self- 
reliance.  I  shall  proceed  to  tell  what  he  and  I,  or  I 
alone,  find  in  quest  of  birds  in  an  ordinary  inland 
country  town,  not  a  remarkable  one,  but  an  average 
one,  any  country  town,  indeed,  in  the  Eastern  or  Middle 
United  States,  just  such  a  town,  very  likely,  as  the  one 
in  which  you,  Reader,  dwell,  or  spend  your  vacation. 
I  shall  try  to  tell,  in  the  main,  what  birds  you  will  be 

10 


THE   APPEAL   OF    THE    SPORT 

likely  to  find  in  such  a  town,  how  we  found  them,  and 
what  fun  we  had  in  doing  so.  You  had  better  have  a 
complete  text-book  with  descriptions  of  birds  and  keys 
to  identify  them,  such  as  Chapman's,  or  Hoffmann's 
Handbook,  and  also  a  field  or  opera  glass,  the  more 
powerful  the  better.  Later  you  can  buy  a  camera,  if 
the  sport  appeals  to  you. 

Most  of  the  birds  here  told  about  are  found  also  in 
other  parts  of  the  country  and  in  Canada,  and  the 
general  idea  of  the  book  will  apply  as  well  there,  for 
the  sport  of  bird  study  is  not  limited  to  any  narrow 
boundaries. 

It  is  a  good  idea  for  all  who  study  birds  to  know 
something  of  their  classification,  the  principal  groups 
and  families  into  which  bird  species  are  divided.  There 
are  not  so  very  many  of  these,  and  they  are  very  distinct 
one  from  another,  and  one  can  easily  carry  the  whole 
scheme  in  mind.  In  coming  upon  an  unfamiliar 
specimen,  it  is  pleasant  to  be  able,  from  its  general 
appearance  or  habits,  to  recognize  at  once  to  what 
family  it  belongs.  All  there  is  to  do,  then,  is  to  take 
the  Handbook  and  find  which  of  several  species  it  is. 
Most  of  them,  indeed,  one  will  probably  know  already — 
the  thrushes,  warblers,  swallows,  finches,  woodpeckers, 
hawks,  grouse,  gulls,  and  so  on.  In  the  chapters  fol- 
lowing I  tell  about  the  different  groups  of  birds  in  their 
order  of  classification,  except  that  the  swimming  and 
wading  birds  are  transferred,  for  convenience,  from 
first  to  last.  It  will  be  a  good  idea  to  learn  the  scheme 

11 


THE   APPEAL   OF    THE    SPORT 

of  classification,  which  is  given  elsewhere  in  this  book, 
and  then,  when  afield,  see  what  pleasure  it  gives  to  be 
able  to  instantly  assign  each  bird  as  it  appears  to  its 
proper  family  apartment  in  the  big  bird-house  of 
Science.  One  feels  that  he  has  a  grasp  upon  the  sub- 
ject and  knows  just  about  what  to  expect.  Ned  is 
already  an  expert  in  this. 

But  now  here  he  comes  running  back  to  remind  me 
that  I  forgot  to  return  his  precious  jack-knife,  so  we 
must  stop  talking  about  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

HUNTING   GAME  BIRDS  WITH   THE   CAMERA 

(Upland  Game  Birds) 

AL  the  fall  the  gunners  were  at  it.  The  weather 
was  mostly  fine,  and  the  guns  seemed  to  be 
barking  in  all  directions  nearly  every  day. 
Birds  were  plenty,  tempting  some  hunters  to  kill  more 
than  the  law  allowed,  and  the  game  warden  caught 
some  of  them  red-handed.  It  certainly  seemed  as  if 
there  would  be  no  birds  left  by  the  time  that  the  law 
went  on  again,  the  first  of  December. 

So  I  was  pleased  enough,  during  my  winter  rambles, 
to  flush  good  numbers  of  the  Ruffed  Grouse  on  the 
woody  hillsides  and  in  the  swampy  woods,  and,  when 
the  first  mild  days  of  early  March  arrived,  to  find  that 
there  had  returned  to  their  old  haunts  in  the  alder 
swamps  quite  a  number  of  the  Woodcock,  generally 
recognized  as  the  king  of  the  game  birds.  With  the 
coming  of  freezing  weather  the  Woodcock  had  left  us 
for  a  milder  climate,  where  things  were  made  warm  for 
them  by  gunners  all  winter  long.  It  was  a  wonder 
that  any  of  them  had  lived  to  come  back. 

Game  birds  are  ranked  by  sportsmen  not  so  much 
by  their  size  as  by  the  degree  in  which  they  "lie  to  the 

13 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH    CAMERA 

dog."  The  Ruffed  Grouse  is  all  too  apt  to  run  away 
as  the  hunting  dog  approaches,  and  flush  from  a  dis- 
tance. The  Wilson's  Snipe  of  the  meadows  lies  closely 
enough  some  days,  but  on  others  sneaks  off,  and  flies 
wildly  to  safety.  The  Bob-white,  or  Quail,  is  a  fine 
bird  to  hunt  with  the  dog.  Sometimes  I  have  had 
almost  to  kick  them  up  before  they  would  fly.  But  the 
closest  squatter  of  them  all  is  Sir  Woodcock,  and  he  is 
king  without  a  rival,  with  our  friend  Bob  White,  Es- 
quire, as  a  close  second.  These  are  the  four  real  game 
birds  of  eastern  districts  and  the  subjects  of  this  chap- 
ter. We  shall  see  what  sort  of  game  they  make  for 
hunting  with  the  camera. 

In  this  hunting,  as  well  as  in  the  other,  Woodcock  is 
king.  Though  he  does  not  seem  to  be  particularly  a 
proud  bird,  yet  he  does  have  great  confidence  in  himself, 
in  his  ability  to  escape  the  prying  eyes  of  enemies,  and 
rightly  so,  for  his  colors  and  markings  are  so  closely 
like  those  of  his  surroundings  in  the  woods  and  swamps 
that  he  can  defy  most  eyes  to  detect  him.  Naturalists 
call  this  "protective  coloration,"  and  a  splendid  pro- 
tection it  is.  So  the  Woodcock  learns  that  all  he  has  to 
do,  ordinarily,  to  be  safe,  is  just  to  keep  still,  and  well 
has  he  learned  the  lesson. 

One  April  day  Ned  and  I  were  following  along  a 
brook  which  flows  through  a  pasture  and  is  fringed  with 
alders.  "Hullo,"  said  I,  "I  wonder  what  sort  of  a 
last  year's  nest  that  is  on  that  low  bush  over  there!" 
So  I  went  over  to  see,  and  stooping  over  to  examine  it, 

14 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

with  my  face  not  more  than  a  yard  from  the  ground, 
something  happened  so  suddenly  that  I  almost  fell  over 
backwards.  A  Woodcock  flushed  from  right  under- 
neath my  nose  and  almost  hit  me  in  the  face.  I  gave 
an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  of  joy  too,  for  surely 
this  must  be  the  nest.  Ned  saw  the  bird  go  off  twitter- 
ing and  alight  in  the  swamp  beyond.  He  hurried  up 
to  see  the  eggs,  for  it  was  nesting  time,  and  we  were 
hunting  for  Woodcocks'  nests.  No!  I  could  hardly 
credit  my  senses.  No  nest  there,  and  the  bird  so 
tame?  But  it  was  even  so.  More  disappointed  hunters 
it  would  be  hard  to  find.  The  other  bird  of  the  pair, 
meanwhile,  had  been  lying  close,  not  ten  yards  away, 
and  in  our  search  for  the  nest  we  finally  flushed  it  too, 
though  we  did  not  get  quite  so  near. 

There  were  various  other  alder  swamps  in  the 
neighborhood,  where  Woodcock  had  been  seen,  and 
one  day  I  induced  a  resident  hunter,  who  was  Wood- 
cock-wise, to  bring  his  dog  for  a  tramp  with  me,  to  try 
to  find  a  nest.  The  dog  did  not  lead  us  to  anything, 
but  his  owner  happened  to  see  some  eggshells  lying  on 
the  ground,  the  remains  of  three  Woodcock's  eggs 
which  had  been  eaten  by  some  animal,  for  the  prints 
of  sharp  teeth  w^ere  in  the  shells.  The  place  was  a 
bushy  tract  at  the  edge  of  a  meadow,  and  the  nest  was 
a  small  hollow  on  a  grassy  hummock  beside  a  low  alder. 

But  back  along  the  same  brook  where  we  flushed  the 
birds  someone  else  had  better  -  luck.  A  young  man 
came  in  to  cut  alders  for  bean  poles.  After  chopping 

15 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

nearly  an  hour  near  one  place,  all  of  a  sudden  a  brown 
bird  darted  up  from  almost  beneath  his  feet,  and  there 
lay  four  handsome  drab  eggs,  spotted  with  lilac.  I  had 
advertised  a  reward  for  a  Woodcock's  nest,  so  early  the 
next  morning  the  youth  came  and  told  me,  and  I  went 
with  him  immediately  in  a  fever  of  excitement,  for  in 
all  my  travels  I  had  never  yet  found  a  Woodcock's  nest. 

The  alders  grew  in  clumps  about  twenty  feet  high  in 
the  part  of  the  swamp  to  which  my  guide  took  me. 
Presently  he  stopped  to  look.  "She's  on  the  nest,"  he 
said.  "Don't  show  me,"  I  exclaimed,  "let  me  make 
her  out."  I  had  to  look  very  sharply,  but  quite  soon  I 
spied  her,  about  fifteen  yards  away.  It  was  a  wonderful 
protective  blending  of  colors.  The  varying  shades  of 
rather  bright  browns  and  yellows  of  the  dead  leaves 
almost  perfectly  corresponded  with  the  browns  in  the 
plumage  of  the  bird.  •» 

The  spot  she  had  chosen  was  on  the  mound  around 
the  base  of  one  of  the  innumerable  clumps  of  alders. 
There  lay  the  bird  among  the  dead  leaves,  without  any 
protection  of  undergrowth,  right  out  boldly  in  the  open, 
relying  solely  upon  the  blending  of  her  color  and  form 
with  the  surroundings.  Then  I  approached  nearer, 
more  cautiously  than  I  needed  to  have  done,  for  I  could 
hardly  bring  myself  to  believe  that  she  would  sit  there 
if  a  man  came  striding  up  close  to  her,  so  plainly  was 
she  now  visible  to  me.  Yet  she  stirred  not;  her  large, 
soft,  brown  eyes,  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  her,  did 
not  move  or  wink. 

16 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH    CAMERA 

Taking  from  my  pocket  a  crisp  two-dollar  bill,  I 
bestowed  it  upon  the  modest  youth,  who  hardly  thought 
that  he  could  rightfully  earn  so  easily  a  day's  wages. 
Then  he  departed,  leaving  me  alone  with  the  bird. 
The  day  was  April  18th,  one  of  the  last  cold  days  of  a 
vigorous  and  hard-dying  winter.  With  the  mercury 
below  forty  degrees,  dark  and  cloudy,  a  cold  wind 
raging,  and  occasional  snow  squalls,  it  might  not  seem 
a  very  favorable  time  for  photographing  birds.  But  I 
dared  not  wait.  By  to-morrow  she  might  easily  have 
hatched  and  led  away  her  nimble  young.  To-night  a 
wildcat,  fox,  raccoon,  or  skunk  might  discover  her  and 
end  my  hopes  and  plans.  So  I  went  right  to  work. 
Dark  as  it  was,  there  was  time  enough  for  exposures, 
for  this  bird  would  keep  as  still  as  the  towering  hills 
before  me. 

Setting  up  the  camera  on  the  tripod,  I  went  to  work 
taking  pictures  of  her,  at  first  from  a  little  distance,  so 
as  to  make  sure  of  some  result,  in  case  she  should  fly, 
but  presently  as  near  as  anyone  could  wish,  the  lens 
being  within  a  yard  of  her.  During  the  two  hours  T 
was  at  it,  the  only  motion  she  made  was  to  wink  once 
when  a  pellet  of  sleet  struck  her  on  her  unprotected 
eyeball. 

By  this  time  I  had  taken  nine  pictures,  from  different 
positions,  and  I  might  have  continued  all  day,  had  not 
my  foot  cracked  a  dry  twig  close  to  her  head.  This  was 
too  much  even  for  her  steady  nerves,  and  away  she 
darted,  not  fluttering  off  as  though  wounded,  like  the 

17 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH    CAMERA 

Wilson's  Snipe  when  flushed  from  the  nest,  but  with 
quick,  direct  flight. 

This  gave  me  a  chance  to  examine  and  photograph 
the  eggs  which  lay  in  a  simple  hollow  in  the  dead  leaves. 
Then  I  withdrew  to  a  distance  and  hid  behind  a  bush 
to  watch  for  her  return.  Just  then  it  began  to  snow 
hard,  and  soon  the  ground  was  white,  though  the 
crystals  melted  on  the  warm  eggs.  Fearing  that  my 
presence  might  be  keeping  her  away,  I  went  off  and 
explored  a  neighboring  wooded  hill,  where  I  found  a 
hawk's  nest.  The  Woodcock  had  not  returned  in  one 
hour,  nor  in  two,  but  at  the  end  of  four  hours  she  was 
brooding  again,  as  tame  as  ever. 

Of  course  at  an  early  opportunity  I  had  to  bring  Ned 
to  see  the  wonderful  sight.  After  taking  some  more 
pictures,  we  sat  on  a  rock  only  six  feet  away  to  eat  our 
lunch,  watching  with  keen  interest  the  fearless  and 
motionless  little  mother.  Never  had  we  seen  a  bird 
lie  so  splendidly  to  dog,  man,  camera,  or  anything  else. 
To  our  minds  the  title  royal  was  fairly  earned,  and 
Woodcock  was  certainly  king. 

We  had,  however,  one  final  and  severe  test  for  her — 
to  try  to  make  her  stand  up  to  be  photographed.  After 
getting  the  camera  aimed  and  focused,  and  being  all 
ready,  with  one  hand  I  presented  to  her  the  end  of  a 
short  stick.  She  did  not  move  when  it  touched  her, 
nor  even  when  I  pried  her  up  off  the  eggs  and  finally 
pushed  her  over  on  to  one  side.  She  would  not  stand 
up  for  me,  but  at  last,  crouching  as  low  as  possible,  she 

18 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

y 

gave  a  sudden  spring  and  went  up  like  a  glass  ball  from 
a  trap.  Even  if  I  had  tried  to  make  the  exposure,  I 
know  that  I  should  have  been  far  too  slow.  I  have  no 
doubt  but  that  we  could  have  handled  her,  had  we  tried 
to  do  so.  Then  I  set  the  camera,  attached  a  thread  to 
the  shutter,  and  hid  behind  a  bush  at  a  distance,  to  get 
a  picture  of  her  as  she  came  back,  meanwhile  letting 
Ned  go  home.  There  I  sat  with  eyes  glued  to  that  spot 
in  the  leaves  for  four  mortal  hours.  The  bird  did  not 
appear,  the  sun  went  down,  and  I  had  to  give  it  up. 

Of  course  the  eggs  would  be  chilled  and  spoiled,  and 
I  wondered  how  long  she  would  sit  on  them.  I  made  a 
few  more  calls  on  Madam,  and  then  neglected  her 
until  the  second  day  of  May.  Four  neatly  split  shells 
lay  in  the  nest.  The  hardy  eggs  had  hatched  after  all, 
and  four  little  Woodcocks  were  somewhere  following 
their  devoted  mother  and  learning  to  bore  for  worms 
along  the  soft  margin  of  the  brook. 

That  same  year,  late  in  July,  one  of  my  other  boy 
friends  caught  a  young  Woodcock  as  he  returned  from 
fishing  and  was  walking  along  the  railroad  track.  The 
bird  flew  up  from  the  road-bed  and  alighted  in  the 
grass,  where  it  hid  and  allowed  him  to  catch  it.  It  was 
fully  fledged,  but  not  yet  very  strong  on  the  wing. 
Ned  and  I  kept  it  for  a  month,  and  had  very  interesting 
times  with  it.  We  kept  it  in  a  wire  chicken  run,  and 
fed  to  it  as  many  as  175  earth  worms  a  day.  It  soon 
got  so  that  it  would  run  up  and  take  worms  from  our 
hands,  and  sometimes  it  would  even  try  to  swallow  my 

19 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

finger,  mistaking  it  for  a  nice  fat  worm.  It  would 
grasp  a  worm  with  the  end  of  its  long  bill,  using  the 
tip  of  the  upper  mandible  independently  of  the  rest  of 
the  bill,  like  a  thumb,  and  then  gulp  the  worm  down. 
Most  of  the  worms  were  put  in  a  pan  of  moist  earth, 
through  which  they  burrowed  to  the  bottom.  This 
was  at  night,  and  in  the  morning  we  would  find  the 
earth  completely  perforated  with  round  holes  where 
the  bird  had  bored  for  its  game.  It  was  seldom  that 
a  single  worm  could  long  escape. 

Sometimes  I  would  take  the  bird  out  for  exercise  and 
picture-making,  tying  a  thread  to  its  leg  to  prevent  it 
from  flying  away.  It  would  run  about  the  lawn  erecting 
its  pretty  tail,  which  it  spread  out  pompously  after  the 
manner  of  a  turkey  cock.  In  like  manner  it  would 
drink  or  dabble  along  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  it 
was  a  sight  to  watch  it  bore  for  worms  in  the  soft  mud 
of  the  sink  drain.  Finally  after  a  month's  captivity,  I 
let  it  go,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  it,  it  was  trotting  off  under 
the  bushes  on  the  river's  brink.  We  all  thought  every- 
thing of  "  Woodie,"  whose  only  fault,  according  to  Ned, 
was  its  enormous  appetite,  that  fairly  tired  him  out 
digging  worms  to  appease  it. 

But  he  had  a  harder  task  yet  in  store.  Time  flew 
along,  like  the  birds,  and  it  was  April  again.  One  day 
a  young  man  brought  me  an  adult  Woodcock,  which  he 
had  caught  by  the  roadside.  It  had  hurt  its  wing 
against  a  telegraph  wire  and  could  no  longer  fly.  It 
could  eat,  however,  and  we  soon  found  that  it  was  no 

20 


Woodcock  on  nest,  showing  surroundings.     "Don't  show  me 
make  her  out"  (p.  1C). 


let  me 


Young  Woodcock.     "Erecting  its  pretty  tail''  (p.  20). 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

play  to  dig  worms  for  it  so  early  in  the  season — a  cold, 
backward  spring,  too.  Ned  had  not  much  time  after 
school,  and  I  was  busy.  One  day  I  dug  for  over  an 
hour  and  did  not  find  worms  enough  for  half  a  day's 
rations.  Later  in  the  day,  as  I  passed  a  store  in  the 
town,  I  saw  a  boy  standing  idle,  and  an  idea  came  to 
me.  "Don't  you  want  to  earn  some  money?"  I  asked 
him.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  replied.  "All  right,"  said  I,  "if 
you  will  dig  me  some  worms  for  my  pet  Woodcock  I'll 
give  you  ten  cents  a  pound  for  them."  That  night  he 
brought  a  tomato  can  full  and  said  he  would  get  more. 
The  news  spread  rapidly  among  the  boys  that  a  sort  of 
gold  mine  had  been  discovered.  There  was  a  regular 
procession  of  boys  with  worms,  and  I  was  kept  busy 
weighing  worms  and  finding  change  for  my  "worm 
brigade,"  as  I  called  them. 

•  None  were  wasted,  for  the  Woodcock  was  a  marvel- 
ous eater.  When  it  first  came  it  weighed  five  ounces. 
Hearty  eating  soon  brought  it  up  to  six  and  one-half, 
and  then  it  dropped  to  a  good  full  six,  where  it  remained 
for  months,  until  it  was  drowned  one  night  in  a  terrific 
thunder  shower.  I  weighed  the  food  carefully,  and 
found  that  it  averaged  about  ten  ounces  of  worms  every 
twenty-four  hours.  Seldom  did  it  eat  less  than  eight 
ounces,  often  eleven,  and  once,  when  I  weighed  the 
food,  it  disposed  of  an  even  twelve,  twice  its  own  weight. 
"Ned,"  I  said,  "how  much  do  you  weigh?"  "A  hun- 
dred and  ten,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  if  you  were  as  big  an  eater  as  the  Woodcock, 
21 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

it  would  take  about  two  hundred  pounds  of  meat  a  day 
to  keep  you.  Do  you  suppose  your  father  would  sup- 
port you  and  send  you  to  college  if  you  ate  forty  dollars' 
worth  of  meat  a  day?"  Ned  thought  that  his  fond 
Papa  would  have  to  send  him  to  work  instead  of  to 
college,  so  it  is  well  that  his  appetite  is  not  quite  so 
tremendous. 

The  game  bird  which  is  the  nearest  relative  of  the 
Woodcock  is  the  Wilson's  Snipe.  Not  many  people 
except  sportsmen  know  it  at  all,  but  the  trouble  is  that 
a  good  many  are  as  afraid  as  cats  of  getting  their  feet 
wet.  But  it  never  in  the  world  will  hurt  a  healthy  per- 
son, if  one  only  keeps  warm  by  exercising  and  takes  off 
the  wet  things  before  sitting  down.  Often  I  have 
walked  home  through  the  town  with  the  water  squeaking 
in  my  boots  like  a  suction  pump,  but  I  never  caught 
cold  that  way.  But  with  long  rubber  boots,  unless  we 
fall  into  some  bog  hole,  we  can  probably  keep  dry,  and 
vigorous  tramping  in  boggy  meadows  in  April  or  early 
May,  or  in  September  or  October,  can  probably  add 
the  Snipe  to  our  acquaintance  and  our  bird  list.  We 
shall  see  its  rapid,  irregular  flight,  and  hear  its  curious 
note — "escape,"  it  seems  to  say,  which  it  proceeds  to 
do  admirably,  unless  the  intruder  be  a  gunner  and  a 
good  shot  besides!  Often  have  I  chuckled  to  see  the 
would-be  snipe  shooter's  bang-bang,  miss-miss! 

The  bird  goes  mostly  north  of  the  United  States  to 
breed,  though  a  few  do  so  along  the  northern  border. 
I  have  found  just  one  nest  in  my  life  thus  far,  up  in  the 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH    CAMERA 

Magdalen  Islands,  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence.  The 
male  seems  to  give  warning  to  his  brooding  mate  when 
an  intruder  approaches  the  nest,  and  the  pair  dart 
around  very  swiftly  up  in  the  air,  making  a  humming 
with  their  wings  and  sharp  scolding  notes.  One  of  my 
bright-eyed  young  friends  hid  and  watched  a  female 
until  she  alighted  near  her  nest,  which  he  then  found, 
and  we  all  had  chances  to  see  her  go  fluttering  up  as 
though  desperately  wounded.  She  was  very  tame  in 
returning,  and  by  setting  the  camera  on  the  ground, 
focused  on  the  nest,  and  pulling  the  thread,  I  secured 
several  good  pictures  of  her  in  the  act  of  brooding  her 
four  dark  mottled  eggs. 

Previous  to  the  severe  winter  of  1903-4,  Bob- white 
was  an  abundant  bird  in  our  locality.  Sitting  on  my 
piazza,  I  could  hear  ringing  calls  issuing  from  the  out- 
lying clover  fields,  as  the  proud  little  roosters  challenged 
one  another  from  their  observatories  on  stone  wall  or 
rail  fence.  Sometimes,  especially  when  driving,  I  have 
passed  quite  close  to  our  noisy  little  friend  on  the  fence, 
but  he  is  off  in  a  hurry,  if  one  stops  to  look  at  him.  In 
the  autumn  I  have  followed  up  coveys  to  see  what  they 
would  do.  Once,  in  September,  I  saw  a  number  of 
them  on  a  stone  wall.  They  flew  down  as  I  drove  by, 
into  some  bushes  close  at  hand,  and  I  hitched  the  horse 
and  went  after  them.  Standing  on  the  wall,  I  studied 
over  the  ground  under  the  bushes  very  carefully,  but 
could  not  make  out  a  single  bird.  But  when  I  tossed 
in  a  big  stone,  up  they  all  went  like  rockets,  nearly 

23 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

twenty  of  them,  right  from  the  very  place  I  had  so 
carefully  examined. 

How  well  protected  they  are  by  their  colors  I  once 
had  a  fine  chance  to  see.  A  single  bird  flushed  before 
the  hunting  dogs,  and  took  to  a  patch  of  scrub  pines. 
I  went  in  to  look  for  it,  and,  as  I  was  standing  where 
the  shade  was  dense,  but  the  ground  clear  of  under- 
growth, I  happened  to  see  it  lying  flat  on  the  ground  on 
the  smooth  carpet  of  pine  needles  only  two  or  three 
steps  from  me.  Before  I  had  time  to  get  my  camera 
ready  it  realized  that  it  was  discovered  and  flew  off. 
So  I  got  no  picture,  and,  indeed,  had  never  shot  quail 
with  the  camera.  But  opportunities  came,  at  length. 
Mrs.  Robert  White,  like  the  old  woman  of  shoe-resi- 
dence fame,  usually  has  a  great  many  children.  She 
raises  a  big  batch  of  them  in  June,  and  then  often  tries 
it  again  in  July  and  August.  She  is  apt  to  nest  in  hay 
fields,  and  the  mowing-machine  discovers  this  second 
nesting.  So  one  day,  late  in  July,  a  farmer  told  me 
that  he  had  found  a  nest.  Sure  enough,  in  the  corner 
of  his  field  by  the  stone  wall  was  a  nest  with  sixteen 
eggs,  in  a  clump  of  grass  which  the  kind  man  had  left 
to  protect  them.  It  was  easy  enough  to  photograph 
the  eggs,  but  the  mother  bird  was  afraid  of  the  camera, 
so  I  had  to  take  it  away  without  getting  her  picture.  I 
made  another  visit  very  soon  with  Ned,  and  was  just 
in  the  nick  of  time,  for  fourteen  of  the  sixteen  eggs  had 
hatched,  and  the  cunning  little  things  which  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  little  brown-leghorn  chickens,  only 

24 


Bob- White  on  nest.     "  Could  stroke  her  on  the  back"  (p.  25). 


Nest  and  brood  of  Quail.     "Like  little  brown  leghorn  chickens"  (p.  24). 


Ruffed  Grouse  incubating.     Secured  by  leaving  the  camera  set  over  night  (p.  30). 


Ruffed  Grouse  in  confinement.     "Saying,  'quit,  quit,'  like  a  turkey"  (p.  31). 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

about  half  their  size,  were  all  in  the  nest,  just  dried  off 
ready  to  leave,  as  they  always  do  very  shortly  after 
hatching.  The  mother  was  brooding  them,  and  she 
fluttered  off,  while  the  young  scrambled  out  of  the  nest 
in  an  instant  and  hid  in  the  grass.  Between  us  both  we 
managed  to  find  ten,  which  we  put  back  in  the  nest, 
where  I  photographed  them  and  the  egg  shells.  Each 
one  of  the  eggs  had  the  larger  end  neatly  split  off  to  let 
out  the  chick.  The  membrane  held  the  piece  like  a 
lid,  and  in  most  cases  it  had  shut  down  again  so  neatly 
that  one  would  hardly  notice  but  that  the  eggs  were 
round  and  full  as  ever  of  young  quail.  As  soon  as  I 
went  away  the  anxious  mother,  who  had  been  whining 
at  us  from  the  wall,  sneaked  back  to  her  chicks  and 
doubtless  led  them  away  at  once.  It  was  disappointing 
that  it  was  a  dark  showery  day,  so  that  I  could  not  try 
for  a  snapshot  at  the  family  as  they  left  their  happy 
home  for  the  wide,  wide  world. 

"My,  but  wasn't  it  great  luck!"  About  a  week  later 
another  farmer  mowed  by  a  nest  and  found  it.  This 
one  was  not  half  a  mile  from  the  other,  right  beside  a 
much-traveled  road,  under  the  end  of  a  pile  of  fence 
rails.  This  bird  was  very  different  in  disposition  from 
the  other.  She  was  so  tame  that  Ned  and  I  could 
stroke  her  on  the  back  without  making  her  leave  her 
eggs,  so  accustomed  had  she  become  to  seeing  people, 
who  were  constantly  passing  so  near  that  they  surely 
would  have  stepped  on  her,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
protecting  rails.  She  was  in  plain  sight  now,  without 

25 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

the  long  grass,  and  yet  no  one  else  discovered  her.  I 
set  up  the  camera  as  near  as  I  could  wish,  and  photo- 
graphed her  without  the  least  trouble.  Then  Ned 
poked  her  off  the  nest.  I  got  her  picture  as  she  was 
leaving,  out  in  the  grass,  where  he  "shooed"  her  to 
make  her  stand  still,  before  she  flew.  Having  to  drive 
past  on  the  following  day  in  the  evening,  I  stopped 
my  buggy  within  a  yard  of  her  and  watched  her  awhile. 
As  usual,  she  never  moved  or  winked.  The  next  day 
eleven  split  shells  told  the  story  of  the  birth  of  eleven 
little  Bobby- whites  to  roam  the  grain  fields  and  pastures 
of  their  beautiful  valley. 

I  had  now  secured  photographs  from  wild  life  of 
three  of  the  four  important  game  birds,  and  was  eager 
now  to  conquer  the  remaining  one,  the  Ruffed  Grouse. 
In  past  years  I  had  often  found  their  nests.  A  favorite 
location  is  in  a  pine  grove,  under  some  little  bush  or 
sprout.  One  day,  some  ten  years  before  this,  I  had 
found  two  in  one  tract  of  pines,  within  half  an  hour. 
Another  favorable  place  is  swampy  woods,  beside  a 
fallen  log  or  underbrush,  as  well  as  in  drier  woodland. 
Confident  of  success,  through  past  experience,  the  fol- 
lowing spring,  in  May,  I  began  the  hunt  for  a  nest  in 
woods  where  the  birds  were  common.  It  is  largely  a 
matter  of  chance — though  of  persistence,  too — to  walk 
close  to  the  brooding  bird,  practically  invisible  by  her 
protective  coloration,  and  flush  her  from  her  eggs. 
What  a  tremendous  whirring  she  makes  as  she  leaves! 

Somehow  luck  was  plainly  against  me  at  the  first. 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH   CAMERA 

Day  after  day  I  had  ranged  the  woods  for  miles  and 
miles,  but  I  did  not  happen  upon  just  the  right  spot. 
But  at  length,  while  I  was  thus  hunting,  I  met  a  man 
burning  brush,  who  told  me  of  an  Indian  hunter  who 
recently,  while  guiding  a  surveying  party,  had  found 
two  "  Partridge  "  nests.  That  evening  I  saw  the  Indian, 
and  arranged  to  have  him  show  me  his  finds. 

Two  days  later,  in  the  morning,  we  started  up  a  trail 
over  a  very  mountainous  tract.  For  nearly  two  miles 
it  followed  a  rocky  ravine  by  a  roaring  brook.  A 
rattlesnake  sprung  his  wavering  alarm,  but  I  was  too 
eager  in  the  quest  to  care  that  day  for  snake  trophies. 
Three  miles  back  from  the  road  we  reached  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  nests.  One  was  in  a  swampy  hollow 
along  the  line  of  the  surveyors'  blazings,  beside  a  stump. 
We  finally  found  it,  after  quite  a  search,  but  some  wild 
animal  had  eaten  the  eggs  and  the  shells  were  scattered 
about.  The  other  was  a  little  further  on,  beside  the 
trail  we  had  been  following.  The  bird  was  on  the 
nest,  directly  at  the  base  of  a  clump  of  chestnut  sprouts. 
Despite  her  solitude,  or  else  because  of  it,  she  was  one 
of  the  wary  sort  and  ran  off,  trailing  her  wings,  before 
I  could  get  with  the  camera  within  fifteen  feet  of  her. 
She  had  twelve  eggs. 

Leaving  the  vicinity  for  a  time,  when  I  returned  she 
was  not  on,  though  the  eggs  were  warm.  Then  I  hid 
and  watched.  In  half  an  hour  she  came  walking  back, 
with  head  erect,  jerking  her  tail.  After  waiting  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  for  her  to  get  composed,  again  I 

27 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH    CAMERA 

tried  to  approach,  but  she  ran  the  instant  she  saw  me 
coming.  Evidently  this  method  was  hopeless,  so  I 
rigged  the  camera  up  in  some  bushes  in  front  of  the 
nest,  covering  it  with  leaves.  Then  came  a  tedious 
wait  in  hiding,  with  thread  attached  to  the  shutter,  but 
no  sign  of  the  bird.  So  I  extended  my  line  of  thread 
away  off  in  the  woods,  went  off  for  an  hour,  and  then 
pulled  at  a  venture.  This  time  the  bird  was  at  home, 
having  become  used  to  the  camera.  It  was  now  late 
afternoon,  so  I  had  to  return  home,  after  fixing  an 
imitation  of  the  camera  to  keep  the  bird  accustomed  to 
the  instrument.  The  plate  proved  to  be  hopelessly 
under-exposed,  though  the  exposure  was  for  one  sec- 
ond, with  full  aperture,  but  with  a  single  lens  of  the 
doublet. 

The  next  two  days  brought  pouring  rain,  but  I  tried 
it  again  on  Memorial  Day,  arising  at  4  A.  M.,  as  I  had 
to  be  back  at  noon  for  public  exercises.  The  bird 
skulked  off  again,  so  I  set  the  camera  as  before,  but 
she  had  not  returned  in  over  three  hours.  It  was  then 
eleven  o'clock.  I  left  the  camera  set,  ran  the  three 
miles  down  the  trail  in  twenty-eight  minutes,  jumped 
into  the  buggy,  and  barely  was  in  time  for  my  appoint- 
ment. The  exercises  were  over  by  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon,  and  I  hustled  back  up  the  mountain,  reach- 
ing the  nest  at  4.15.  The  bird  was  on,  and  I  pulled 
the  thread,  the  shutter  set  for  its  longest  movement, 
about  a  second  and  a  half,  and  with  the  doublet  lens, 
giving  four  times  the  illumination  of  the  single  lens. 

28 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

By  4.30  I  had  the  plate  changed  and  was  in  hiding. 
At  5.05  the  hen  returned  to  her  eggs.  When  she  was 
still  I  was  about  to  pull  the  thread  when  a  wonderful 
thing  happened.  Just  in  the  rear  of  the  sprouts  under 
which  she  was  sitting  I  caught  sight  of  some  large 
creature,  apparently  sneaking  up  to  kill  her.  At  first, 
through  the  foliage,  I  took  it  to  be  a  hog  or  dog.  When 
it  got  almost  to  her,  I  saw  it  was  a  big  bird,  all  bristled 
up,  a  turkey  gobbler,  I  thought.  Suddenly  it  made  a 
rush  right  into  the  nest.  Involuntarily  I  almost  shouted 
and  leaped  to  my  feet  to  rush  out  and  save  the  eggs 
from  vandalism,  when  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  me 
that  it  was  the  male  bird  making  love  in  his  own  way. 
The  hen  was  too  quick  for  him.  She  flushed  like  a 
projectile  from  a  gun  and  was  gone,  leaving  her  admirer 
beside  the  nest.  For  fully  a  minute  he  stood  there, 
perfectly  still,  the  very  picture  of  pomposity.  His  tail 
was  erected  and  spread  to  its  widest  extent,  as  was  the 
glorious  black  ruff  on  his  neck.  The  head  was  raised 
and  the  wings  drooped.  After  thus  duly  surveying 
the  situation  he  finally  strutted  proudly  off  into  the 
bushes.  Meanwhile  I  was  undergoing  counter-blasts 
of  excitement,  delighted  with  the  scene,  and  chagrined 
that  he  was  just  out  of  the  field  and  focus  for  which 
the  camera  was  set.  What  a  picture  that  would  have 
been! 

The  hen  returned  to  her  brooding  within  five  minutes, 
and  I  made  the  exposure.  But  somewhere  in  the 
bushes  the  old  rooster  was  watching,  and  again,  in 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH    CAMERA 

about  three  minutes,  he  tried  to  rush  her.  She  darted 
off  when  he  was  six  feet  away  and  again  he  struck  his 
pose,  proud  even  in  defeat. 

Not  certain  of  success,  owing  to  the  darkness  of  the 
woods,  I  left  the  camera  set  over  night,  well  covered 
with  a  rubber  cloth.  It  was  well  I  did  so,  for  the  plates 
were  still  badly  under-exposed.  I  was  back  the  next 
morning  soon  after  nine  o'clock.  The  bird  was  on, 
and  the  light  much  better,  shining  from  in  front  of  the 
nest.  I  made  the  exposure  and  set  the  shutter  for 
another  trial,  this  time  for  prolonged  time  exposure. 
It  took  the  bird  over  three  hours  to  come  back,  but  the 
weather  was  warm  and  the  eggs  would  not  suffer, 
This  time  the  shutter  went  wrong  and  stayed  open. 
Again  I  set  it  and  late  in  the  afternoon  obtained  an- 
other shot.  The  bird  stayed  perfectly  still  when  I 
pulled  the  string  which  opened  the  shutter,  so  I  let  it 
remain  open  for  ten  seconds,  and  this  time  I  had  a 
well-exposed  plate.  The  first  one  of  the  morning  was 
also  good.  So  at  last  I  had  my  reward  for  three  days' 
labor,  walking  twenty-four  miles  and  driving  sixteen, 
to  complete  my  series  of  game  bird  portraits. 

That  very  day  my  next  door  neighbor  found  another 
nest,  with  eight  eggs,  within  ten  minutes  walk  of  home. 
It  was  in  a  beautiful  grove  of  white  birches  under  the 
trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  which  was  prettily  overgrown 
with  vines.  This  bird  also  was  shy  and  would  not  let 
me  come  within  sight  of  her  on  the  nest  without  whirring 
off,  not  skulking  like  the  other.  I  had  learned  now 

30 


HUNTING   BIRDS   WITH    CAMERA 

how  to  work.  In  the  morning  I  would  hide  the  camera 
among  the  debris  of  the  upturned  tree  near  the  nest. 
I  would  leave  it  out  and  return  about  noon  to  pull  the 
thread,  allowing  ten  or  fifteen  seconds'  exposure.  In 
this  way  I  secured  the  best  of  all  my  pictures  of  the 
Ruffed  Grouse. 

In  early  autumn  the  young  of  the  year  have  a  curious 
habit  of  flying  blindly  into  all  sorts  of  places.  The 
theory  has  been  advanced  that  these  are  the  profligate 
young  men  of  the  tribe,  off  on  drunken  sprees;  that 
they  eat  too  freely  of  poke-berries,  or  other  fruit,  and 
thereby  become  intoxicated.  Of  this  there  is  no  certain 
proof.  Perhaps  they  are  trying  to  escape  from  hawks, 
or  get  bewildered  in  their  wanderings.  At  any  rate 
they  do  it  and  I  have  observed,  or  been  told  of,  various 
instances.  Once  I  found  one  in  my  church  cellar,  and 
recently  one  dashed  against  the  window  of  a  neighbor's 
house  and  fell  dazed  to  the  piazza.  It  was  brought  to 
me  and  for  a  month  I  kept  it  in  a  hen-coop  to  study  and 
photograph.  It  ate  freely  of  berries  and  green  corn, 
strutted  about,  saying  "quit,  quit,"  like  a  turkey,  now 
and  then  making  a  purring  sound,  like  a  sitting  hen, 
and  some  whining  noises.  After  a  time  I  sent  it  to 
Bronx  Park,  New  York  City,  where  afterward  I  saw  it 
in  one  of  the  pheasant  pens. 

Ned  was  not  on  hand  for  the  grouse  shooting  just 
described,  but  has  seen  enough  to  become  enthusiastic 
over  this  sort  of  game  hunting.  As  for  myself,  I  have 
shot  the  game  birds  both  with  gun  and  camera  and, 

31 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

while  I  would  not  despise  the  former  sort  of  hunting,  J 
like  the  other  much  better. 

Had  this  book  been  written  a  century  or  so  ago,  there 
would  have  been  several  other  species  to  enroll  among 
the  upland  game-birds  of  the  Eastern  and  Middle 
Districts.  One  of  these,  the  Wild  Turkey,  has  long 
since  disappeared  from  the  region,  but  is  still  found  in 
some  parts  of  the  South.  In  a  very  wild  part  of  central 
Florida,  miles  from  any  dwelling  of  man,  in  the  year 
1902,  I  happened  upon  a  nest  of  the  Wild  Turkey.  It 
was  a  mere  hollow,  lined  with  a  few  feathers,  under  a 
small  palmetto,  just  on  the  border  of  the  prairie  and  a 
great  cypress  forest.  The  dozen  or  so  of  eggs  had 
recently  hatched  and  the  shells,  neatly  split  in  halves, 
lay  in  the  nest.  Then  there  was  the  Heath  Hen, 
similar  to  the  Pinnated  Grouse  or  Prairie  Hen,  abundant 
in  those  days,  but  now  exterminated,  save  a  small 
remnant  which  hide  in  the  tangled  scrub-oak  tracts  on 
the  island  of  Martha's  Vineyard,  Mass.  The  State 
and  other  agencies  are  trying  to  save  them,  but  the 
result  trembles  in  the  balance.  The  Wild  or  Passenger 
Pigeon  which  visited  the  region  in  countless  multitudes 
has  likewise  disappeared,  with  the  possible  exception 
of  a  few  stragglers.  Various  persons  report  that  they 
have  seen  them,  but,  as  writh  supposed  ghosts,  they 
never  show  themselves  to  a  competent  witness,  and 
certainly  in  most  cases  people  have  mistaken  them  for 
the  common  Mourning  Dove. 

This  latter  bird  is  still  with  us  in  small  numbers, 
32 


HUNTING   BIRDS    WITH    CAMERA 

though  in  the  West  they  are  still  abundant.  One  of 
the  most  pleasing  sounds  of  spring  is  the  "cooing"  of 
these  gentle  creatures,  "coo,  coo,  coo-o,"  it  comes, 
seemingly  from  afar,  it  is  so  soft  and  ventriloquial. 
Indeed  it  sounds  to  me  quite  like  the  distant  hooting 
of  the  Great  Horned  Owl.  The  Mourning  Dove  used 
to  be  considered  a  game  bird,  and  open  seasons  were 
allowed  f6r  hunting  it.  But  now,  in  most  States,  it  is 
protected  like  a  song-bird,  as  indeed  it  should  be.  It 
nests  in  scattered  pairs  in  woods  or  pastures,  building  a 
frail  loose  nest  of  twigs,  generally  in  some  low  crotch 
of  a  tree,  in  a  thicket,  or  even  on  the  ground,  where  I 
have  now  and  then  seen  them.  Several  times  also  I 
have  found  their  two  white  eggs  in  old  Robins'  nests. 
In  late  summer  and  fall  they  gather  into  small  flocks 
and  resort  to  grain  or  stubble  fields  to  feed.  They  do 
not  hurt  the  grain,  but  merely  glean  the  kernels  which 
have  fallen. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  ROBBERS  OF  THE  FALLS,  AND  OTHERS 

(Hawks) 

THIS  beautiful  May  morning,  the  twelfth,  the  falls 
were  simply  glorious.  The  recent  heavy  rain 
had  filled  the  mountain  brook  with  a  rushing 
torrent  which  took  its  fifty-foot  leap  into  the  dark  rocky 
gorge  with  an  unusual  roar.  Thence  it  thundered 
down  a  series  of  cascades  to  join  the  river  below,  past 
the  dark  hemlock  forest  on  both  sides  which  added  its 
dignified  whisperings  to  the  tumult  of  the  waters.  Here 
and  there  among  the  dark  green  of  the  hemlocks  showed 
the  pale  yellows  of  the  oaks,  chestnuts,  and  birches, 
which  were  just  beginning  to  unfold  their  verdure. 

It  was  warbler-time,  and  as  I  scrambled  along  half- 
way up  the  steep  declivity,  following  up  the  stream  on 
the  left  bank,  I  was  watching  a  little  company  of 
warblers,  among  which  were  several  of  the  beautiful 
Blackburnians,  ceaselessly  active  in  the  upper  branches 
of  the  hemlocks.  Just  then  I  caught  sight  of  something 
which  made  me  lose  the  warblers.  Not  far  away  from 
me  was  an  oak,  in  whose  second  crotch,  forty  feet  up, 
was  a  sizable  nest  of  sticks,  from  which  projected, 
with  an  upward  slant,  a  stubby  thing  which  looked 

34 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

like  a  hawk's  tail.  Was  it  really  that?  It  is  easy  to 
see  what  one  wants  to  see,  and  sometimes  an  old  stick 
will  prove  deceptive.  I  do  not  like  the  feeling  of  the 
collapse  of  one's  hopes,  but  I  do  enjoy  exciting  anticipa- 
tion. My  powerful  Zeiss  glasses  showed  me  that  it 
was  surely  a  hawk  and  so  I  stood  there  awhile  enjoying 
the  sight.  Now  I  cautiously  advanced  and  came  nearly 
to  the  tree  before  the  hawk  heard  my  steps  above  the 
din  of  the  waters.  She  stood  up  in  the  nest,  and  away 
she  went,  with  a  shrill,  high-pitched  scream — "whe-e-e," 
and  alighted  upon  a  tall  tree  a  hundred  feet  away, 
where  she  continued  to  squeal  her  displeasure. 

"Broad- wing!  Fine!"  I  ejaculated.  Not  our  com- 
monest hawk  by  any  means!  And  an  obliging  Broad- 
wing! I  had  no  climbing  irons  with  me,  but  as  I 
examined  the  situation,  it  seemed  as  though  the  bird 
had  had  my  convenience  in  mind  in  selecting  the  site 
for  her  nest.  About  fifteen  feet  away  was  a  rather 
large  hemlock,  with  step-ladder  branches  beginning 
about  fifteen  feet  up,  and  close  beside  it  a  young  hem- 
lock, making  another  step-ladder  up  to  the  first  branch 
of  the  big  tree.  To  run  upstairs  was  the  simplest  thing 
in  the  world,  if  one  did  not  mind  elevation,  and  very 
soon  I  was  overlooking  the  nest  with  its  two  sizable 
dirty  white  eggs  blotched  with  brown,  lying  on  a  bed 
of  bark,  dry  leaves  and  twigs,  with  a  few  green  hemlock 
sprays  on  the  side  for  ornament.  It  was  too  nice  up 
there  to  hurry  down.  The  tree  was  on  the  edge  of 
quite  a  steep  declivity,  and  far  below  I  could  see  the 

35 


THE   ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

swirling  water,  which  roared  away  unceasingly,  almost 
loud  enough  to  drown  the  angry  screams  of  the  hawk, 
which  was  now  making  dashes  at  my  head,  sheering 
off  just  out  of  reach. 

But  it  would  not  do  to  stay  there  longer  and  lose  the 
golden  moments,  so  I  descended,  crossed  the  brook  on 
some  projecting  rocks,  and  entered  an  extensive  and 
beautiful  hemlock  grove.  Within  a  few  rods  of  the 
great  fall  I  recalled  that  there  was  an  old  hawk's  nest 
high  in  a  hemlock,  which  I  had  examined  year  by  year, 
hoping  to  find  it  again  occupied,  as  hawks  often  return 
to  their  old  nest,  or  else  it  is  taken  by  other  hawks  even 
after  the  tenement  has  had  years  of  disuse.  Seven 
springs  successively  I  had  looked  at  it,  but  I  was  not 
hopeless,  so  long  as  it  held  together.  This  time  it 
certainly  looked  large  and  fresh,  as  though  it  had  been 
added  to.  Under  it  were  freshly-broken  sticks  and 
one  hawk's  feather.  Though  no  one  answered  to  my 
stormy  knocks  at  the  door,  I  went  upstairs  without 
invitation,  and  looking  into  the  airy  bedroom  I  found 
three  plain  bluish-white  eggs  characteristic  of  the 
Cooper's  Hawk,  laid,  as  is  usual  with  this  species,  on 
scales  or  chunks  of  hard,  rough  bark  without  any  other 
lining  to  the  big  stick  nest.  And  now,  seeing  that  the 
game  was  up,  Mrs.  Cooper  announced  her  displeasure 
by  an  angry  demand  as  to  what  business  I  had  up  there 
without  her  permission — *'  cack-cack-cack-cack-cack- 
cack!"  "Oh,  none  at  all;  your  humble  servant,"  I 
said,  meekly  descending,  when  I  had  looked  her  home 

36 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

over  to  my  satisfaction.  "But  what  made  you  desert 
me  in  all  these  eight  years?" 

Wasn't  this  great  to  find  two  hawks'  nests  in  the 
same  woods  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  apart !  Here  was  fun 
enough  laid  out  for  Ned  and  me.  But  it  will  be  danger- 
ous for  other  birds  and  squirrels  and  rabbits  which  live 
here.  These  falls  will  witness  many  a  tragedy.  Little 
do  the  picnic  parties  which  come  here  almost  daily 
realize  that  four  savage  robbers  are  watching  them 
from  the  tree  tops.  How  blind  the  average  people 
seem,  for  I  can  hardly  imagine  myself  not  discovering 
at  least  this  nest  right  in  the  picnic  grove  before  I  had 
been  there  an  hour. 

It  will  seem  strange  if  these  robber  families  which 
make  their  living  by  killing  every  smaller  creature  that 
comes  in  their  way  manage  not  to  disagree  among 
themselves  and  have  some  terrible  fights.  But  the 
probability  is  that  each  pair  will  stay  on  its  own  side  of 
the  brook  and  attend  strictly  to  its  own  business.  If 
either  is  the  aggressor,  I  think  it  will  be  the  Cooper's 
Hawks,  for  they  are  bold,  pestilent  fellows,  the  worst 
nuisance  of  the  whole  tribe  to  the  farmers,  like  their 
smaller  relative  the  Sharp-shinned  Hawk,  while  the 
Broad-wing  is  a  slow-moving,  sedate  sort  of  bird,  con- 
tenting itself  mostly  with  the  humbler  sorts  of  prey 
and  seldom  troubling  poultry. 

I  am  wondering  another  thing,  too,  whether  these 
numerous  mountain  brooks  of  this  hilly  country,  with 
their  falls  and  deep  rocky  gorges,  do  not  all  have  their 

37 


THE   ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

robbers.  Only  two  days  before  this  I  was  descending 
the  gorge  of  another  similar  mountain  stream  hardly 
two  miles  from  here,  when  I  noticed  a  hawk's  nest  in 
an  oak  tree  over  the  water.  It  was  an  old  one,  not 
occupied,  and  presently,  as  I  went  on,  I  came  to  an- 
other in  the  top  of  a  tall  dead  birch  tree,  also  right  over 
the  stream.  It  was  evidently  not  occupied,  but  I 
clapped  my  hands  loudly  to  inquire,  and  was  surprised 
to  see  a  Broad-wing  fly  awray  from  somewhere  lower 
down,  though  not  from  the  nest.  Innocently  assuming 
that  she  wras  preparing  to  use  this  nest  and  had  been 
perching  silently  near  it,  I  was  about  to  go  on  without 
climbing,  as  I  had  no  irons  with  me,  and  to  return  later, 
when  I  happened  to  espy  a  neat  new  nest  in  a  low  hem- 
lock, not  half  as  high  as  the  nest  in  the  birch,  well  con- 
cealed in  the  branches.  White  down  clung  to  the  twigs 
all  about  it  and  there  was  now  no  question  as  to  where 
the  hawk  had  flown  from.  It  was  only  thirty  feet  up, 
with  branches  all  the  way,  and  I  was  quickly  examining 
the  two  eggs,  similar  to  those  of  the  broad-winged 
robber  of  the  other  falls.  Growing  beside  this  tree,  at 
just  the  right  distance  to  set  a  camera,  was  a  slender 
but  strong  young  oak.  I  had  never  photographed  the 
Broad-wing  Hawk  from  life,  and  now,  with  these  two 
nicely  situated  nests,  certainly  there  was  a  fine  chance. 
My  friend  Ned  was  as  yet  inexperienced  in  the  joys 
and  triumphs  of  hawking  and  I  had  him  with  me  a 
few  days  later  when  I  made  the  first  try  at  snapping 
the  Broad-wings,  selecting  the  nest  at  the  big  falls. 

38 


THE   ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

Meanwhile,  one  afternoon,  I  had  gone  the  rounds 
again,  and  by  each  of  the  three  raptores'  nests — "rap- 
tores,"  meaning  robbers,  is  the  Latin  scientific  name  of 
the  order  of  hawks,  owls,  and  the  like — I  had  tied  up  a 
small  cereal  box  with  a  round  hole  in  one  end,  to 
represent  a  camera  and  lens,  with  a  piece  of  burlap  or 
sacking  pinned  over  it,  like  a  focusing  cloth,  placing 
this  in  the  hemlock  tree  just  where  I  planned  to  set  the 
camera.  The  hawks  generally  get  used  to  the  novelty 
after  awhile,  and,  when  the  real  camera  is  set  there, 
they  do  not  mind  it  at  all.  The  main  trouble  is  to 
make  them  believe  you  have  left  the  woods,  for  they 
will  not  go  to  the  nest  as  long  as  they  think  anyone  is 
near. 

The  hawk  was  at  home,  having  become  used  to  my 
dummy  camera.  With  my  own  4x5  camera  slung 
over  my  shoulder  in  its  case  and  other  necessary  instru- 
ments in  my  pocket,  I  began  to  climb  and  told  Ned  to 
come  up  after  me.  By  the  time  he  was  halfway  up  the 
tree  he  hesitated,  for  it  seemed  a  long  way  down  to  that 
roaring  brook.  I  told  him  to  keep  his  eyes  on  a  level 
and  not  mind  the  rocks  below,  because  there  were 
plenty  of  strong  branches  and  he  could  not  fall.  So  he 
got  up  where  he  could  look  into  the  nest  and  watched 
me  fix  the  camera. 

It  took  me  quite  a  while  to  rig  it  up,  screwing  it  with 
a  bolt  and  ball-and-socket  clamp  to  the  right  hand  side 
of  the  trunk,  so  it  could  point  toward  the  nest  and 
nothing  be  in  the  way  of  the  plate-holder.  I  took  off 

39 


THE   ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

the  back  lens  of  the  doublet  and  used  the  single  front 
member,  of  eighteen  inches  focus,  which  gave  a  good 
large  image  of  the  nest  even  from  that  distance.  When 
it  was  focused  and  everything  ready  I  tied  the  end  of 
the  spool  of  strong  black  linen  thread  to  the  shutter, 
dropped  the  spool  to  the  ground,  set  the  shutter,  and 
then  we  climbed  carefully  down,  so  as  not  to  pull  the 
thread  and  spoil  the  plate. 

The  next  thing  was  to  find  a  good  hiding  place  from 
which  to  watch  for  the  return  of  the  hawk.  About  a 
gunshot  away,  up  the  hill,  a  large  chestnut  tree  had 
fallen,  and  under  it  seemed  a  good  chance  to  hide. 
Ned  held  the  thread  so  the  shutter  would  not  be  re- 
leased, while  I  further  unwound  it  and  laid  it  out 
carefully,  to  avoid  tangling,  to  the  old  trunk.  Crawling 
in  under,  I  called  Ned,  and  he  hurried  up  and  came  in 
too.  From  a  peek  hole  I  could  just  see  the  nest  through 
the  leaves  and  branches.  The  only  thing  to  do  now 
was  to  watch  when  the  hawk  came  back  to  the  nest, 
and  then  pull  the  thread  carefully  so  as  not  to  jar  the 
camera  while  the  shutter  opened  for  the  required  half 
second.  The  bellows  were  so  long  that  in  the  woods 
this  was  none  too  much,  even  with  the  lens  at  full 
opening. 

We  lay  perfectly  still  and  listened  to  the  hawk 
music.  Both  of  the  pair  were  flying  around  and 
screaming  away  like  good  ones.  It  seemed  as  though 
they  surely  would  stop  in  a  few  minutes  and  get  to  work 
at  housekeeping  again,  but  they  kept  right  at  it.  In 

40 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

half  an  hour  we  felt  pretty  well  cramped.  Ned  com- 
plained that  his  neck  ached  like  fury,  and  mine  was  in 
the  same  condition.  The  hawks  were  still  alarmed 
and  something  was  evidently  wrong. 

"I  don't  believe  it's  the  camera  that  disturbs  them," 
I  said  to  Ned.  "I  think  they  know  we  have  not  gone. 
What  do  you  say  to  going  off  out  of  sight,  making 
plenty  of  racket  as  you  go,  and  see  if  the  birds  can  count 
and  remember  there  was  another  fellow?" 

"All  right,"  he  replied,  and  he  left  me,  secretly  glad, 
I  am  sure,  to  straighten  out  the  kinks  in  his  persecuted 
neck. 

He  had  not  been  gone  two  minutes  before  the  yelling 
ceased.  There  was  dead  silence  awhile,  and  then  I 
saw  a  hawk  alight  in  a  tree  near  the  nest.  Next  she 
flew  to  another  branch,  and  then  glided  right  on  to  the 
nest  and  stood  erect,  looking  and  listening.  This  was 
my  chance,  and  steadily  and  slowly  I  pulled  the  thread 
taut.  The  hawk  gave  no  sign  of  having  heard  the 
shutter  and  settled  down  to  brood.  I  gave  her  ten 
minutes  to  get  over  her  alarm  and  watched  her  through 
my  field  glass.  Now  and  then  she  would  turn  her  head 
and  then  would  settle  back  with  a  sleepy  air,  just  like 
an  old  sitting  hen. 

The  exciting  question  now  was  whether  or  not  the 
shutter  had  sprung,  or  had  the  thread  got  tangled. 
Quietly  I  crawled  out  from  my  retreat  and  away  fronr 
it,  so  as  not  to  show  the  hawk  where  I  had  hidden. 
As  soon  as  I  walked  boldly,  she  flew,  and  I  hurried  to 

41 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

climb  the  tree  and  was  overjoyed  to  find  the  shutter 
closed. 

"Good  work!"  I  shouted  to  Ned.  "I've  got  a  pic- 
ture, and  we'll  try  for  another."  So  I  changed  the 
plate,  set  the  shutter  again,  and  this  time  walked  off 
noisily  beyond  the  log  and  to  one  side  of  it.  Then  I 
dropped  to  the  ground  and  crept  silently  to  it  on  my 
hands  and  knees.  The  hawk  did  not  see  or  hear  me. 
She  was  silent,  after  a  few  moments,  and  seemed  to  go 
off  somewhere.  But  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  suddenly 
saw  a  shadow  and  something  glided  swiftly  through 
the  woods,  and  almost  immediately  she  was  on  the 
nest.  This  time  I  let  her  settle  down  to  incubate  before 
I  pulled,  and  I  "got"  her  sidewise,  a  fine  clear  picture. 

The  hawk  was  becoming  accustomed  to  my  ap- 
proaches, and,  anyhow,  Broad-wings  are  the  tamest  of 
the  hawks.  As  I  changed  the  plate  I  called  to  Ned, 
for  he  was  anxious  to  be  in  the  game,  and  I  thought 
that  our  robber  friend  would  now  give  us  permission. 
We  both  hid,  and  this  time  she  thought  the  coast  was 
clear  and  soon  came  back.  She  flew  straight  toward 
the  nest  and  seemed  to  go  to  it,  yet  absolutely  disap- 
peared. 

"Where  is  she?"  whispered  Ned  excitedly.  "I  can't 
see  her  at  all."  "I  think,"  I  hurriedly  answered,  "that 
she  is  close  to  the  nest  behind  that  big  branch.  Anyhow 
I'm  going  to  try  it."  So  I  pulled  the  thread  and  the 
hawk  flew  from  just  where  I  thought.  What  luck 
that  I  pulled  then!  This  picture  was  a  wonder.  The 

42 


Broad-winged  Hawk  on  nest.     "Let  her  settle  down  to  incubate"  (p.  42). 


Broad-winged  Hawk  on  nest.     The  better  of  the  pictures  saved  from  the  accident 
(pp.  44-6). 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

hawk  stands  on  the  stub,  in  the  act  of  entering  the 
nest  with  a  chunk  of  bark.  Why  did  she  bring  it? 
Others  can  answer  as  well  as  I.  I  have  seen  other 
hawks  bring  things,  too.  They  carry  in  fresh  green 
sprays  or  leaves  each  day,  apparently  for  ornament, 
just  as  we  have  our  house  plants,  but  it  is  not  so  clear 
why  they  bring  lining  when  the  nest  has  long  been 
built.  Possibly  it  is  because  the  nest  keeps  breaking 
down,  or  the  rotten  sticks  crumble,  so  they  have  to 
keep  adding  to  it,  and  get  in  the  habit  of  bringing 
something  each  time  they  return  not  otherwise  laden, 
so  as  to  save  steps,  just  as  the  farmer's  boys  are  told  to 
bring  in  an  armful  of  wood  every  time  they  come  to 
the  kitchen. 

We  got  three  more  good  shots  that  day,  six  in  all,  the 
best  day's  hawking  I  ever  had,  for  every  one  of  them 
was  good.  I  let  Ned  pull  the  thread  once,  so  that  he 
could  say  that  he  had  taken  a  picture  of  a  wild  hawk 
from  life. 

I  was  alone  when  I  photographed  the  other  Broad- 
wing and  Ned  missed  one  of  the  times  of  his  life !  The 
hawk  would  not  go  near  the  nest  while  I  was  in  the 
woods  and  I  had  no  one  with  me  to  go  away,  so  next 
time  I  brought  my  little  brown  umbrella  tent  and 
pitched  it  down  the  stream,  where  I  could  just  see  if 
the  hawk  went  to  the  nest,  though  I  could  not  see  her 
upon  it.  It  was  no  fun  rigging  the  camera  in  that 
slender  oak,  with  nothing  but  the  trunk  to  hold  on  to, 
one  foot  in  a  small  crotch,  the  other  supported  by  the 

43 


THE   ROBBERS    OF   THE   FALLS 

iron  spur.  There  were  sharp  rocks  beneath  and  I 
had  to  be  exceedingly  careful.  Indeed  one  could  not 
be  enough  so,  having  to  use  both  hands  at  times  to 
adjust  the  camera.  It  was  awkward,  nerve-trying 
work,  and  took  a  long  time,  but  it  was  finally  done,  the 
thread  cable  laid,  and  I  crawled  into  the  tent.  The 
hawk  was  suspicious,  and  it  was  only  after  hours  of 
waiting  with  eyes  at  the  peek  hole  and  neck  almost 
paralyzed,  that  I  secured  two  shots  at  her  on  the  nest, 
and  then,  with  the  precious  plates,  I  followed  the  path 
back  to  the  "rig." 

I  had  driven  the  horse  up  a  rocky  wood  road  until  the 
ascent  became  too  steep  and  rough  for  further  progress, 
and  hitched  to  a  tree  in  a  little  opening.  It  was  two 
o'clock  when  I  drove  down,  and,  as  I  had  not  brought 
much  lunch,  I  was  hungry.  Just  then  I  remembered 
an  apple  in  my  pocket  which  a  boy  whom  I  met  had 
given  me.  It  proved  quite  hard,  so  I  opened  my 
knife  to  cut  it  and  let  the  horse  climb  unguided  down 
the  declivity.  I  only  looked  off  for  a  moment,  but  it 
was  a  moment  too  long.  The  horse  swerved  slightly 
and  made  the  wheel  on  the  right  strike  a  steep  rock 
projecting  close  to  the  trail.  As  quick  as  a  flash  the 
buggy  was  overturned  and  I  was  pitched  out  into  the 
bushes,  knife  in  hand.  Fortunately  I  was  not  cut,  but 
I  lost  the  reins  and  the  frightened  horse  ran  away, 
galloping  down  the  rocky  trail,  the  buggy  bottom-side- 
up,  camera,  plates,  tripod,  everything,  being  scattered 
to  the  winds.  Then  with  a  flying  leap  down  a  steep 

44 


THE   ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

pitch,  where  there  was  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road,  the 
horse  and  buggy  disappeared  and  all  was  still. 

My  state  of  mind  may  be  imagined  as  I  hurried  after 
the  flying  apparition.  Rather  singularly,  the  first 
thought  that  came  to  me  was  that  after  working  nearly 
all  day  for  those  hawk  pictures,  they  were  all  smashed 
to  pieces.  But  I  passed  the  plates  and  camera  where 
they  had  fallen  and  rushed  on  to  see  what  had  become 
of  the  horse.  When  I  came  to  the  pitch  and  bend  in 
the  road  I  saw  the  sight  of  a  lifetime.  There  was  the 
overturned  buggy  and  a  capsized  horse  entangled  in 
the  harness,  helpless  from  lying  with  her  legs  uphill. 
These  members  were  feebly  waving  in  the  air,  as  though 
set  on  a  derelict  for  signals  of  distress. 

A  man  in  the  field  below  had  seen  the  final  catas- 
trophe and  hurried  to  the  rescue.  Together  we  man- 
aged to  unhitch  the  "fool"  animal  and  drag  away  |the 
buggy  with  its  two  dished  wheels.  But  the  horse  could 
not  get  up,  though  I  could  see  no  injury  save  a  slight 
cut  on  one  leg.  I  suggested  that  it  only  needed  to  turn 
turtle  and  roll  down  hill,  but,  as  it  would  not  do  this, 
we  must  do  the  little  trick  for  it  ourselves.  It  seemed 
rather  ungracious  to  ask  the  farmer  to  take  the  business 
end  of  the  animal,  so  I  had  him  grasp  the  front  legs, 
while  I  gingerly  laid  hold  of  the  "kickers,"  and  we  bent 
our  backs.  Presto!  The  horse  rolled  over  and  then 
struggled  to  its  feet,  where  it  stood  taking  in  the  situa- 
tion. Then  its  head  drooped.  Was  it  going  to  die? 
It  was  a  young  and  valuable  horse  which  I  had  recently 

45 


THE   ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

bought,  and  I  felt  anxious.  What  do  you  think  it  did? 
The  strongest  instinct  asserted  itself,  even  in  the  hour 
of  trial.  The  horse  was  even  hungrier  than  I.  Graz- 
ing, as  I  live!  We  men  looked  at  one  another  and 
laughed. 

Then  I  hurried  to  take  further  account  of  stock. 
The  camera  was  unbroken;  the  precious  plates  were 
sound,  and  produced  two  good  pictures  after  all.  We 
pushed  the  spokes  back  into  the  hub  and  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  I  was  driving  home  as  though  nothing  had 
happened,  slowly  though,  for  the  wheels  might  break 
down  again,  and  actually,  the  horse  for  the  next  week 
seemed  afraid  to  "step  lively,"  evidently  fearing  lest  it 
should  again  fall  down! 

When  I  met  Ned  and  told  him  the  story,  the  first 
question  he  asked  was — "Did  you  photograph  the 
wreck?"  Well,  I  never!  What  a  brilliant  idea  and 
what  a  stupid  omission  to  be  so  concerned  about  a 
horse  as  to  overlook  this  wonderful  opportunity.  I 
almost  wanted  to  go  back  and  try  it  over  again.  But 
it  was  not  to  be.  "Next  time,  Ned,"  I  replied  regret- 
fully, "such  a  bright  boy  as  you  must  surely  be  along 
when  anything  interesting  happens."  "You  can  count 
on  me,  if  I  know  it,"  he  said. 

The  young  hawks  hatched  in  due  time,  one  only  in 
the  great  falls  nest,  but  both  in  the  other.  The  evening 
before  Ned's  birthday,  the  second  of  June,  as  we 
climbed  to  the  latter,  we  could  hear  a  "cheep,  cheep," 
as  from  under  a  mother  hen.  What  was  our  surprise 

46 


Home  life  of  the  Red-tailed  Hawk.     "The  wary  creature  standing  quietly  by  her 
chick"  (p.  50). 


Red-tailed  Hawk.     "  Proceeded  to  tear  up  the  snake  for  her  young  one"  (pp.  50-1). 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

to  find  eggs  still  in  the  nest.  But  each  one  had  a  hole 
in  it  and  a  yellow  hooked  bill  sticking  through.  "Your 
birthday  will  be  the  Broadwings'  birthday,"  I  said  to 
Ned. 

From  time  to  time  we  came  and  photographed  the 
young  in  both  nests  until  they  were  ready  to  leave,  in 
early  July,  and  also  the  young  Cooper's  Hawks,  only  two 
of  which  hatched.  I  had  placed  a  dummy  camera  six 
feet  away  in  the  next  hemlock,  after  the  young  hatched, 
but  I  did  not  get  time  to  experiment  on  the  mother. 
She  was  a  shy  rascal  and  one  could  hardly  get  a 
glimpse  at  her,  even  by  stealing  toward  the  nest  on  tip- 
toe. One  day  I  went  to  the  nest,  leaving  Ned  at  the 
foot  of  the  great  fall  sailing  chip  boats.  This  time 
Mrs.  Cooper  came  to  meet  me  and,  perched  on  a 
low  branch  quite  near,  gave  me  a  terrible  scolding. 
Ned  could  not  hear  my  yells  above  the  roar  of  the 
cataract,  so  I  went  to  summon  him  for  the  fine  sight, 
but  when  I  returned  with  him  the  hawk  had  gotten 
over  her  sudden  streak  of  boldness  and  taken  herself 
off. 

By  far  the  best  way  to  get  familiar  with  hawks  is  to 
find  their  nests  and  then  from  time  to  time  visit  them 
at  home  and  study  their  habits.  At  other  times  one 
can  get  only  occasional  glimpses  at  them,  as  they  soar 
overhead,  or  dive  into  the  poultry  yard,  or  dash  upon 
one  in  the  woods,  or  perch  upon  some  tree  by  the  road- 
side. But  one  can  learn  more  of  hawks  in  a  season  by 
finding  a  few  of  their  nests  than  would  be  possible 

47 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

otherwise  in  years.  They  are  such  fine,  large,  spirited 
birds,  their  nests  big,  in  big  trees,  in  big  woods,  and 
there  is  a  peculiar  fascination  in  hunting  for  them. 
The  boy  who  catches  the  hawk  fever  will  find  it  almost 
impossible  to  cure.  I  had  a  severe  attack  of  this  fever 
when  about  fifteen  years  old,  and  there  is  no  sign  yet  of 
my  getting  over  it.  I  fear  that  Ned  has  caught  it  from 
me  and  will  be  in  for  it  for  life. 

During  the  late  fall  and  winter  I  usually  have  some 
fine  tramps  exploring  the  groves  or  woodland  tracts 
where  there  is  the  tallest  timber,  looking  up  likely 
nesting  places  and  old  nests  which  may  be  occupied 
another  year.  Hawk's  nests  are  built  entirely  of 
sticks;  those  built  wholly  or  in  part  of  leaves  belong  to 
squirrels.  Then  there  are  crow's  nests,  which  cannot 
always  be  distinguished  from  those  of  hawks. 

In  the  nesting  season  the  signs  of  a  new,  occupied 
nest  are  these:  the  ends  of  the  sticks  in  the  nest  ap- 
pearing a  lighter  color,  freshly  broken;  similar  sticks 
on  the  ground  beneath  the  nest;  bits  of  white  down 
clinging  to  the  nest  or  to  twigs  near  it.  The  ques- 
tion is  often  settled  by  seeing  the  hawk  fly  off  as  we 
approach. 

It  is  great  fun  to  hunt  up  the  nests  of  the  big  "Hen 
Hawks" — Red-tails  and  Red-shoulders — in  the  first  of 
the  season,  during  April.  The  temperature  is  fine  for 
vigorous  tramping  and  climbing,  and  it  is  splendid, 
exhilarating  sport.  Each  pair  of  these  birds  stay  in 
the  same  woods  year  after  year,  and  either  use  the  same 

48 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

nest,  or  another  not  far  from  it.  Sometimes  they 
alternate  between  two  or  three  nests,  which  remain  as 
landmarks  for  years. 

This  was  the  case  with  a  pair  of  Red-tails  about  four 
miles  from  my  home.  About  every  other  year  they 
would  go  off  to  some  nest  which  I  did  not  succeed  in 
locating,  but  the  next  year  they  would  be  in  either  of 
two  nests  about  two  hundred  yards  apart.  One  was  a 
big  affair,  sixty  feet  up  a  giant  oak  which  grew  from 
the  foot  of  quite  a  precipice.  From  the  top  of  this 
ledge,  by  climbing  a  sapling,  one  could  see  into  the  nest. 
It  was  a  hard  matter,  though,  to  climb  the  old  oak  to 
the  nest,  the  trunk  was  so  thick  and  the  bark  so  loose. 
But  Ned  did  it  with  the  help  of  a  rope,  and  photographed 
the  nest  and  eggs  very  successfully. 

The  other  nest  was  in  a  chestnut  stub,  forty  feet  up. 
Back  from  it  the  hill  sloped  up  quite  abruptly.  There 
was  a  thick  hemlock  tree  with  branches  down  to  the 
ground  on  this  slope  near  the  nest.  One  day  I  pitched 
my  umbrella  tent  under  the  hemlock,  and  the  next 
afternoon  when  she  had  become  accustomed  to  it,  I 
had  Ned  leave  me  hidden  in  it  and  took  three  pictures 
with  my  high-powered  telephoto  lens  of  the  mother 
hawk  as  she  returned  to  the  nest. 

This  last  season  the  pair  occupied  a  new  nest  in  the 
same  woods,  in  a  chestnut  tree  which  grew  near  a 
hemlock.  There  was  one  young  hawk  in  the  nest, 
hatched  about  the  twenty-seventh  of  April.  Up  in  the 
hemlock  I  rigged  a  dummy  camera  which  was  so  well 

49 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

concealed  by  the  evergreen  foliage  that  the  wary  hawks 
paid  no  attention  to  it.  Down  the  side  hill,  as  far  off 
as  I  could  see  the  nest  through  the  woods,  I  pitched  my 
brown  tent  and  left  it  there  indefinitely.  By  rigging 
my  camera  in  place  of  the  dummy,  connecting  it  with 
the  tent  by  a  thread  and  hiding  there,  I  secured  some 
interesting  pictures,  after  a  number  of  attempts,  and 
long  vigils.  The  mother  hawk  would  perch  on  a 
distant  hemlock  on  the  ridge  of  the  mountain  and 
silently  watch  for  over  an  hour.  Then  she  would  fly 
off  and  be  gone  a  couple  of  hours  longer  before  return- 
ing to  the  nest.  One  afternoon  after  watching  steadily 
for  four  hours  from  the  peek  hole  in  the,  tent,  I  fell  asleep 
— the  only  time  I  ever  did  such  a  thing  afield.  I  only 
dozed  for  a  few  minutes,  but  it  was  just  at  the  critical 
time,  for  the  old  hawk  came  and  fed  her  young  one 
and  flew  off  just  as  I  had  awakened  and  was  in  the  act 
of  pulling  the  thread.  The  day  was  wasted,  and  I  felt 
unutterable  things.  However  I  tried  again  and  again. 
Another  time  the  shutter  stuck  and  made  useless  a 
long  vigil.  But  finally,  after  some  rather  poor  expos- 
ures, I  snapped  the  keen  and  wary  creature  standing 
quietly  by  her  chick,  enjoying  its  society — a  beautiful 
picture.  Another  day,  as  I  watched,  the  old  bird 
came  with  a  snake  dangling  from  her  claws.  She 
circled  around  three  times,  then  hastily  deposited  the 
snake  and  was  off  before  I  dared  to  pull,  as  I  had  set 
the  shutter  for  half  a  second.  I  watched  for  her  return 
for  several  hours,  and  then  she  came  and  proceeded  to 

50 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

tear  up  the  snake  for  her  young  one,  and  the  camera 
this  time  caught  her  in  the  act.  On  the  sixth  of  June  I 
photographed  the  youngster,  fully  fledged,  about  to 
leave  the  nest,  at  the  ripe  age  of  forty  days. 

Sometimes  hawks  betray  the  locations  of  their  own 
nests.  Usually  they  are  pretty  careful  about  ap- 
proaching them,  but  the  Red-tails  and  Red-shoulders 
are  often  noisy  in  the  woods  near  the  nest,  and  can  be 
seen  circling  over  it.  Noticing  this,  people  living  or 
working  near  the  woods  can  often  put  one  on  the  track 
of  a  nest.  The  Cooper's  and  Sharp-shinned  Hawrks 
often  cackle  angrily  when  one  comes  near  the  treasure, 
and  thus  betray  their  secret.  Whenever  a  small  hawk 
sets  up  a  "cack-cack-cack"  in  the  woods  in  nesting 
time,  one  may  be  confident  that  a  nest  is  close  by. 

A  Cooper's  Hawk  w^hich  I  once  photographed  on  the 
nest  used  to  build  every  year  in  the  same  tract  of  woods. 
A  friend  of  mine  was  unfortunate  enough  to  live  near 
these  woods  and  was  trying  to  raise  chickens.  Though 
he  had  ropes  stretched  all  about  hung  with  bottles  and 
rag^,  and  every  corner  had  its  scarecrow — or  "scare- 
hawk!" — neighbor  Cooper  was  accustomed  to  visit 
him  on  friendly  errands  several  times  a  day  and  each 
time  had  to  have  a  chicken.  So  I  told  him  I  would 
break  up  the  nest  for  him,  and  went  in  there  one  after- 
noon. After  exploring  nearly  the  whole  woods  in  vain, 
I  came  back  and  entered  a  grove  of  tall  trees  so  near 
his  house  that  I  had  no  idea  that  a  hawk  would  build 
there.  Immediately  the  hawks  set  up  a  prodigious 

51 


THE   ROBBERS    OF    THE   FALLS 

cackling.  It  took  but  a  little  time  to  find  the  nest  in 
the  tip-top  crotch  of  a  chestnut,  forty  feet  from  the 
ground,  the  twigs  all  around  fairly  bristling  with  down. 
This  was  the  twenty-first  of  May,  and  the  amount  of 
down  indicated  that  incubation  was  well  under  way. 
Strapping  on  my  climbing  irons,  I  went  up,  and  brought 
down  the  four  eggs  to  give  to  an  egg  collector.  This 
stopped  the  raids  on  the  chickens,  for  the  hawks 
forthwith  disappeared. 

Later  that  same  season  Ned  and  I  found  a  nice  nest 
of  the  closely  related  Sharp-shinned  Hawk,  the  second 
one  of  this  bird  I  have  found  on  the  fourth  of  July. 
We  were  exploring  a  very  wild  mountainous  region, 
in  a  swampy  tract  of  black  spruce  woods.  We  entered 
it  after  skirting  a  typical  wet  sphagnum  swamp,  and 
about  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  nest  of  sticks  in  a  small 
spruce,  fifteen  feet  up.  Ned  and  I  climbed  the  tree, 
and  we  stayed  up  there  some  time,  enjoying  the  interest- 
ing sight.  Three  little  Sharp-shinned  Hawks  in  white 
down,  and  two  unhatched  eggs  were  our  prize  in  the 
neatly  built  nest  of  small  sticks.  As  we  studied  them, 
the  old  hawk  came  dashing  up,  and  from  trees  near  by 
made  a  great  ado.  The  wind  up  there  on  the  moun- 
tains was  blowing  almost  a  gale,  and  the  trees  were 
swaying  like  so  many  reeds.  By  waiting  patiently  for 
momentary  lulls  in  the  wind,  I  finally  accomplished  it. 

These  five  species  of  hawks  are  the  only  ones  that 
we  are  liable  to  find  in  our  woods  in  the  nesting  time. 
The  Bald  Eagle  is  only  a  big  hawk,  but  it  is  scarce 

52 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

and  seldom  nests  in  this  region.     I  have  seen  many 
nests  in  the  South,  and  it  is  probable  that  most  of 
those  we  see  have  wandered  up  thence  after  the  nest-  ( 
ing  season.    The  small  Pigeon  Hawk  is  a  common 
migrant. 

The  Osprey  breeds  in' colonies  in  a  few  places  along 
the  seacoast.  They  are  beloved  and  protected,  and 
build  on  isolated  trees  on  farms,  often  right  in  the  door- 
yard  of  a  house.  I  only  wish  they  would  build  in  a  tree 
on  my  front  lawn!  Any  person  who  tried  to  molest 
them  would  find  me  looking  for  trouble.  The  nests  are 
as  big  as  haycocks  and  look  out  of  place  up  in  the  trees. 
They  are  made  of  large  sticks  and  all  sorts  of  rubbish. 
One  that  I  examined  had  an  old  umbrella  woven  into 
it,  another  an  old  dried  dead  hen!  I  sat  in  the  nest 
myself,  though,  and  found  it  very  comfortable.  But  it 
is  hard  getting  there.  You  come  up  underneath,  and 
the  thing  bulges  out  beyond  you  like  a  balloon,  and 
there  seems  no  easy  way  to  get  up  on  top. 

Hunting  Marsh  Hawks'  nests  is  very  different  from 
this  other  "hawking."  They  build  on  the  ground  in  a 
bushy  swamp  or  wet  pasture,  and  one  has  to  tramp 
around  at  random  until  he  comes  within  a  few  steps  of 
the  sitting  bird.  She  will  fly  up  and  go  through  an 
astonishing  performance  of  diving  at  one's  head  and 
screaming,  but  I  never  knew  one  to  actually  strike. 

Then  there  is  the  little  Sparrow  Hawk  which  stays 
with  us  only  in  small  numbers,  nesting  in  hollow  trees 
pr  in  Flickers'  holes  along  the  borders  of  farms,  or  in. 

5.3 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

pastures.  He  is  a  harmless  and  useful  little  fellow, 
feeding  on  mice,  moles,  and  insects. 

Most  of  the  hawks  appear  only  infrequently  in  winter, 
but  I  have  seen  about  all  of  them,  at  rare  intervals, 
even  the  little  Sparrow  Hawk.  On  a  bitter  cold  day, 
the  tenth  of  February,  a  neighbor  caught  one  in  his 
barn,  where  the  poor  little  thing  hoped  to  catch  a 
mouse  to  keep  itself  from  starving.  Red-tails  are  the 
commonest,  and  frequently  I  meet  them  perched  on  a 
large  tree  by  the  edge  of  the  woods  or  by  the  roadside. 
One  had  better  look  sharply  at  the  supposed  Red-tail, 
for  it  might  prove  to  be  the  rarer  American  Rough- 
legged  Hawk  from  the  North,  a  large  bird  of  the  same 
size,  but  with  feathered  legs  like  the  Golden  Eagle. 

At  long  intervals  there  is  a  winter  when  the  fierce 
Goshawk  is  common,  following  unusual  migrations  of 
northern  birds.  The  winter  of  1906-7  was  such  a  one, 
and  these  hawks  were  frequently  seen  well  down  into 
the  Middle  States,  or  further.  Sometimes  they  came 
almost  in  flocks — loose,  straggling,  companies.  I  saw 
one  Goshawk  from  the  window  of  a  train  as  it  hovered 
over  a  river.  In  the  town  where  I  live  a  boy  shot  one 
sitting  on  his  henyard  fence.  Its  crop  was  stuffed  full 
of  the  flesh  of  a  fowl  which  it  had  just  killed  and  was  in 
the  act  of  eating.  In  the  next  town  a  friend  of  mine 
shot  one  of  these  hawks  as  it  perched  on  a  fence  at  the 
edge  of  some  woods.  The  snow  was  deep,  and,  as  he 
picked  up  the  dead  hawk,  a  Ruffed  Grouse  darted 
from  the  snow  close  at  his  feet.  Evidently  the  hawk 

54 


'Three  little  Sharp-shinned  Hawks     .     .     .     and  two  unhatched  eggs  were  our 
prize"  (p.  52). 


Nest  of  Marsh  Hawk.     "They  build  on  the  ground"  (p.  53). 


Nest  of  Red-shouldered  Hawk.     The  nest  in  which  the  Hawk  and  Owl  both  laid 
eggs  together  (pp.  62-3). 


The  Cooper's  Hawks'  nest  by  the  falls.     "Only  two  of  which  hatched"  (p.  47). 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

had  been  in  pursuit  of  it  and  the  poor  bird  had  dived 
headlong  into  the  snow  to  escape  its  fury.  The  hawk 
had  then  alighted  on  the  fence  and  waited  for  it  to 
come  out.  As  I  write  this,  he  looks  down  on  me  re- 
proachfully with  glass  eyes  from  the  top  of  my  case. 
Ah,  you  rascal,  you  will  kill  no  more  grouse!  Yet, 
after  all,  who  has  a  better  right?  I  am  not  so  sure  that 
we,  out  of  our  luxurious  abundance,  had  better  make 
the  claim. 

Ned  and  I  are  so  fond  of  hunting  hawks  with  the 
camera  and  studying  these  bold,  breezy  people  of  the 
forest,  that  we  fairly  mourn  to  see  them  exterminated. 
Of  course  we  do  not  blame  those  for  killing  them  whose 
property  they  devastate,  yet  we  wish  that  people  would 
in  justice  discriminate  between  the  pestiferous  and  the 
harmless  or  useful  kinds,  and  cultivate  enough  of  the 
modern  "outdoor"  spirit  to  make  them  enjoy  seeing 
wild  life  in  nature  and  get  away  from  the  ignorant, 
worn-out  notion  that  the  only  good  hawk  is  a  dead 
one. 

The  Biological  Survey,  of  the  U.  S.  Department  of 
Agriculture  has  shown  that  only  the  Accipitrine  hawks 
— Cooper's,  Sharp-shin,  and  Goshawk — are  injurious. 
The  so-called  "Hen  Hawks"  only  occasionally  attack 
poultry,  especially  in  the  winter,  when  driven  to  it  by 
starvation,  but  by  killing  the  smaller  varmints  and 
insects  do  more  good  than  harm.  Now  and  then  an 
individual,  like  the  tiger,  acquires  a  taste  for  the  wrong 
sort  of  meat,  and  may  properly  be  suppressed.  So, 

55 


THE    ROBBERS    OF    THE    FALLS 

kind  reader,  I  beg  of  you,  do,  please,  not  shoot  a  hawk 
because  he  is  a  hawk,  but  only  if  you  are  sure  he  is 
the  culprit.  Learn  from  a  handbook  of  birds  to 
distinguish  the  different  kinds.  You  will  enjoy  their 
acquaintance  and  then  will  not  be  in  danger  of  mis- 
taking your  friend  and  helper  for  a  murderer. 

Now  and  then  we  shall  probably  see  a  large  black 
bird  with  enormous  spread  of  wing  soaring  on  almost 
motionless  pinions,  drifting  easily  along  with  the  breeze, 
It  is  the  Turkey  Vulture,  or  Turkey  Buzzard,  which  is 
classed  in  this  group  of  raptorial  birds.  Though  from 
afar  it  would  seem  a  beautiful  creature,  so  graceful  in 
flight,  it  is  distance  which  lends  the  enchantment,  for 
at  close  quarters  it  is  a  foul-smelling  carrion-monger, 
with  an  ugly,  featherless  red  head  and  neck.  Yet  for 
all  that  it  is  a  useful  scavenger  and  an  interesting  bird, 
and  I  wish  we  had  more  of  them  in  the  northern  dis- 
tricts to  give  us  exhibitions  of  graceful,  easy  flight. 
They  are  accidental  in  New  England,  where  I  have 
seen  only  two,  but  are  more  frequent  in  the  Middle 
States,  and,  of  course,  abundant  in  the  South.  They 
build  no  nest,  but  lay  their  two  large  handsomely- 
marked  eggs  on  the  ground  under  a  bush,  or  in  a 
hollow  log  or  stump. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

(Owls) 

IF  all  classes  of  birds  were  as  hard  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  as  the  owls,  the  increasing  thousands 
of  boys  and  girls,  men  and  women,  who  discover 
for  themselves  the  fascination  of  the  sport  of  bird  study 
would  mostly  get  discouraged  and  try  other  things. 
Even  I  must  confess  that  I  should  need  to  see  a  bird 
now  and  then  to  keep  up  my  enthusiasm.  But,  as  far 
as  the  bird  of  night  is  concerned,  sometimes,  in  spite  of 
all  my  efforts,  whole  seasons  slip  by  without  my  meeting 
with  a  single  owl.  Even  Ned,  with  all  his  activity,  has 
but  very  few  times  in  his  life  discovered  an  owl  in  the 
wilds,  other  than  what  I  had  first  located.  The  owls 
are  both  scarce  and  secretive,  usually  remaining  in 
hiding  during  the  daytime,  and  the  student  need  not 
be  too  much  chagrined  at  being  unable  to  find  them. 
Fortunately  there  are  plenty  of  other  birds  to  interest 
and  occupy  one  afield.  So  hunt  away,  keeping  the 
eyes  peeled  for  the  hid  treasure,  and  some  time,  surely, 
you  will  find  the  bird  with  the  big  eyes,  and  get  such  a 
thrill  of  delicious  excitement  in  your  success  that  you 
will  not  begrudge  the  waiting  which  made  the  joy  of 
attainment  so  keen. 


THE    BIRD    OF    NIGHT 

Fortunately,  though,  the  owls  have  voices,  and  most 
of  them  are  inclined,  at  times,  to  lift  them  up  in  singing 
— if  one  may  so  call  it.  This  makes  an  intelligent  and 
persistent  hunt  for  them  quite  likely  to  succeed,  pro- 
vided, of  course,  that  there  are  any  owls  there  to  find. 
And  owls  there  almost  certainly  are  within  the  limits 
of  any  country  town  which  is  reasonably  well  wooded 
with  fairly  large  timber  and  is  not  too  suburban. 

Our  two  principal  "hooters"  are  the  Great  Horned 
Owl  and  the  Barred  Owl,  both  of  which  are  confused 
under  the  popular  name  of  "Hoot  Owl."  They  are 
both  big  birds,  especially  the  former,  which  is  also 
distinguished  from  the  other  by  having  large  ear  tufts, 
which  look  like  horns.  They  do  not  migrate  to  any 
great  extent,  though  they  wander  more  or  less  in  winter 
when  food  is  scarce,  but  stay,  for  the  most  part,  in  the 
same  general  region  or  tract  of  woodland  in  which  they 
nest.  In  the  autumn  they  begin  their  loud  hootings. 
One  can  easily  distinguish  the  two  by  these  sounds,  for 
the  Great  Horned  Owl  has  but  three  hoots  to  his  song, 
while  the  Barred  fellow's  vocal  effort  is  much  longer 
and  more  elaborate.  They  are  most  apt  to  hoot  about 
sundown  on  mild  or  moist  days  when  it  threatens  to 
rain  or  snow,  and,  indeed,  they  are  pretty  good  weather 
prophets.  Probably  they  "feel  it  in  their  bones"  when 
a  storm  is  brewing,  though  there  is  no  likelihood  that 
these  hardy  creatures  are  rheumatic.  These  hootings 
are  their  love  notes,  their  mating  cries,  and  I  just  wish 
I  could  find  out  from  them  why  their  fondness  deepens 

58 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

with  the  suggestion  of  stormy  weather.  If  they  were 
accustomed  to  have  comfortable  nests,  we  might  think 
that  the  approaching  storm  aroused  longing  for  the 
luxuries  of  home.  But  as  their  homes  are  most  un- 
comfortable places,  and  only  one  of  the  pair  occupies 
it  at  the  same  time,  we  cannot  explain  the  mystery  so 
easily.  The  only  plausible  reason  I  can  think  of  is 
that  the  rise  of  temperature  which  accompanies  the 
approach  of  storm,  together  with  the  increasing  damp- 
ness, brings  some  conditions  of  early  spring,  at  which 
time  they  are  accustomed  to  nest.  Yet  hardly  has  the 
light  spring  fancy  of  love  awakened  before  the  cold 
northwest  wind  in  the  rear  of  the  storm  area  puts  it  to 
sleep  again.  But  these  are  the  times  to  take  advantage 
of,  to  learn  where  the  owl  lives.  Don't  stick  in  the 
house  those  winter  afternoons.  A  good  winter's  tramp, 
or  drive,  with  a  bird  quest  in  view,  is  exhilarating  and 
delightful.  Why  shouldn't  you  enjoy  the  distinction 
among  your  admiring  and  almost  envious  bird-loving 
cronies  of  having  yourself  found  a  big  owl's  nest?  I 
never  can  forget  how  I  felt,  when  a  boy,  attending  the 
Boston  Latin  School,  when  one  Monday  morning  one 
of  my  schoolmates  announced  in  tones  of  exultation 
that  on  the  preceding  Saturday  he  had  found  a  Barred 
Owl's  nest.  I  had  never  found  any  sort  of  an  owl's 
nest,  and  that  youth  became,  in  my  eyes,  a  real  hero,  a 
mighty  Hercules,  almost.  If  he  had  become  President 
of  the  United  States  in  later  years  I  should  have  felt 
but  the  tiniest  fraction  of  the  hero-worship  which  I  then 

59 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

accorded  him.  So,  if  it  be  such  a  glorious  achievement 
in  the  eyes  of  some  people  to  find  a  big  owl's  nest,  and 
if  you  know  of  a  tract  of  woods  where  you  keep  hearing 
the  owls  hoot  in  winter,  there  is  no  reason  in  the  wide 
world  why  you  shouldn't  be  the  one  to  find  the  nest. 

But  when  is  the  time  to  search?  Long  before  most 
people  imagine.  In  the  cold  and  snowy  weather  of 
1906-7  a  friend  of  mine  found  one  of  my  old  pairs  of 
Great  Horned  Owls  in  the  pineries  of  Plymouth  County, 
Mass.,  doing  business  at  the  old  stand  in  the  middle  of 
February!  A  cold  sleet  storm  was  raging,  but  he 
donned  his  wet-day  uniform  of  rubber — boots,  coat,  and 
hat — and  found  the  big  owl  sitting  on  her  open  plat- 
form of  sticks  high  up  in  a  tall  white  pine  on  her  two 
nearly  fresh  eggs.  He  took  these  as  trophies,  and  early 
in  March  the  great  birds  had  twins  again,  which  he 
allowed  to  hatch,  and  enjoyed  photographing  them  as 
they  grew  up.  That  is  the  true  sportsman's  spirit,  to 
defy  cold  and  wet,  and  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  add  such 
an  achievement  to  the  repertoire  of  one's  sporting 
experiences ! 

By  the  last  week  in  February,  probably  Washington's 
birthday,  every  well-regulated  family  of  Great  Horned 
Owls  in  the  latitude  of  from  New  Jersey  to  Massa- 
chusetts ought  to  have  eggs,  or  not  later  than  the  tenth 
or  fifteenth  of  March  even  up  in  northern  New  England 
or  southern  Canada.  The  Barred  Owls  are  a  little 
later,  and  I  have  usually  found  them  to  have  fresh  eggs 
by  the  first  of  April,  and  sometimes  as  early  as  the 

60 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

middle  of  March.  Both  these  hardy  birds  seem  to  go 
more  by  the  calendar  than  by  the  weather,  and  at  the 
regular  time  they  will  have  their  nests  and  eggs,  blow  it 
high  or  low,  and  be  the  temperature  as  bitter  as  it  may. 
Some  years,  as  the  time  came  around,  amid  a  succession 
of  blizzards  I  would  say — "Surely  those  owls  will  not 
be  laying  now."  But  they  were,  none  the  less. 

Some  pairs  are  earlier  or  later  than  others  as  a  regular 
habit  each  season,  so  each  owl  family  has  its  own 
schedule  and  will  nest  each  year  at  about  its  own  accus- 
tomed time.  One  pair  of  Barred  Owls,  for  instance,  I 
would  always  find  nesting  by  the  middle  of  March,  but 
in  the  next  township  another  pair  would  not  complete 
their  set  of  two  or  three  eggs  till  about  "April  Fool's 
Day." 

The  way  to  find  the  nest  of  either  of  these  large  owls, 
when  one  has  found  out  where  they  usually  hoot,  is  to 
go  in  and  make  a  thorough  canvass  of  whatever  large 
timber  is  there.  Generally  they  will  either  occupy  the 
old  nest  of  a  hawk,  crow,  or  squirrel,  which  consists 
of  a  platform  of  sticks  in  the  crotch  of  a  tall  tree,  ever- 
green or  other,  or,  if  there  is  a  large  hollow  cavity, 
pretty  well  up  from  the  ground,  they  will  use  that.  If 
the  large  owl  is  brooding  in  the  cavity,  she  will  fly  out 
if  the  tree  is  rapped.  In  case  the  nest  is  an  open  one, 
she  will  usually  fly  out  when  one  approaches,  though 
not  always,  for  sometimes  she  will  wait  until  the  tree  is 
thumped,  and  once  I  found  a  Great  Horned  Owl  which 
would  not  leave  even  then,  though  I  could  see  her  great 

61 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

round  face  looking  out  over  the  edge  of  the  nest.  One 
must  get  to  know  the  region  and  explore  it  thoroughly, 
not  overlooking  a  single  old  weather-beaten  crow's 
nest,  for  that  may  prove  to  be  just  the  one  chosen  by 
the  owl.  As  in  searching  for  hawks'  nests,  the  very 
best  sign  of  a  nest  being  occupied  is  to  see  bits  of  downy 
feathers  clinging  to  its  edge.  The  hawk's  down  is 
white,  that  of  owls  gray  or  yellowish.  If  you  can  see 
the  down,  climb,  or  get  someone  else  to  do  it  for  you 
if  you  cannot,  for  the  nest  is  probably  occupied,  or 
about  to  be,  unless,  possibly,  an  owl  has  merely  eaten 
a  grouse  up  there. 

In  my  book  "Wild  Wings"  I  have  detailed  so  many 
finds  of  Great  Horned  and  Barred  Owls'  nests  that  I 
must  not  go  into  this  here,  but  I  will  tell  about  a  very 
remarkable  owl's  nest  which  was  recently  found  by  a 
friend,  and  which  I  went  with  him  to  see. 

Not  far  from  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  across  tht 
line  of  Massachusetts,  is  a  little  patch  of  woods,  hemmed 
in  on  all  sides  by  roads,  houses,  and  a  trolley  line. 
Strangely  enough,  a  pair  of  Barred  Owls  stayed  there, 
and  often  during  the  winter  and  early  spring  were  seen 
from  the  cars  in  the  early  morning  perched  by  the  road- 
side. A  friend  of  mine  lived  near  by,  and  on  the  first 
of  April  he  saw  one  of  the  owls  sitting  on  a  large  new 
nest  twenty  feet  up  a  small  maple,  and  flushed  her  by 
rapping  the  tree.  In  fact  he  had  seen  her  on  or  about 
the  nest  several  times  before  this.  It  happened  that 
I  was  in  Providence  giving  a  bird  lecture,  and  the  result 


Young  Long-eared  Owl  hiding.     "  flaking  themselves  look  like  dead  stubs  "  (p.  67). 


Young  Long-eared  Owls.     "Replaced  in  nest"  (p.  67). 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

was  that  I  went  with  him  on  April  second  to  try  to 
photograph  the  owl,  which  was  quite  tame.  Getting 
ready  my  reflecting  camera  to  snap  her  as  she  flew,  I 
advanced  toward  the  nest,  when,  to  my  astonishment, 
a  Red-shouldered  Hawk  flew  out,  too  far  off  for  a 
picture.  My  friend  was  perfectly  dumfounded,  for  he 
was  an  experienced  ornithologist  and  was  positive  be- 
yond question  that  a  Barred  Owl  had  been  occupying 
the  nest,  which  now  contained  three  hawk's  eggs. 
However,  I  remembered  that  another  friend  had  once 
found  a  nest  in  which  both  a  Barred  Owl  and  a  Red- 
shouldered  Hawk  had  laid,  and  hoped  that  this  might 
be  a  similar  case.  Sure  enough,  it  was.  Someone 
shortly  after  this  took  the  hawk's  eggs,  but  later  an- 
other friend  visited  the  nest  and  found  it  to  contain  one 
hawk's  egg — probably  the  last  one  of  the  previous  set 
— and  two  Barred  Owl's  eggs.  It  was  unfortunate  that 
the  nest  was  in  such  a  public  place,  for  the  mixed  family 
were  not  allowed  to  hatch,  so  nothing  could  be  learned 
of  the  developments  of  this  remarkable  occurrence. 

There  is  another  good-sized  owl  which  we  are  liable 
to  find  nesting,  the  Long-eared  Owl,  which  is  somewhat 
smaller  than  the  Barred  Owl.  Unfortunately  it  is  not 
addicted  to  hooting  and  is  one  of  the  most  secretive 
birds  I  have  ever  met.  Sometimes  I  start  one  out  from 
the  shade  of  a  thick  cedar  swamp,  or  other  dense  tangle, 
but  it  only  allows  the  merest  glimpse  as  it  goes  flopping 
away.  It  generally  occupies  some  old  nest  and  sticks 
to  it  so  closely  that  one  is  likely  to  pass  it  by,  after 

63 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

pounding  the  tree,   without  a  suspicion  that  the  sly 
brown  bird  is  snuggled  closely  on  her  eggs. 

There  is  one  time  at  least  when  this  silent  bird  utterly 
changes  its  usual  behavior,  and  that  is  when  she  has 
young,  and  her  nest  is  invaded.  I  must  tell  about  one 
such  experience  which  I  had.  I  was  camping  one 
spring  with  a  party  of  friends  in  a  wild  region,  on  the 
wooded  shore  of  a  large  lake.  One  day,  in  early  June, 
a  furious  storm  was  raging,  the  wind  blowing  almost  a 
hurricane  directly  on  shore,  raising  surf  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  the  ocean.  Clad  in  rubber  clothing, 
we  were  exploring  the  woods  near  camp.  At  length,  as 
I  struggled  through  the  wet  branches,  I  caught  sight  of 
what  appeared  to  be  a  crow's  nest,  about  twenty  feet 
up  a  small  oak.  Upon  close  approach  I  noticed  two 
brownish  knobs  or  tufts  sticking  up  from  the  nest  and 
waving  in  the  gale.  Then  a  head  was  raised,  and  a 
shrewd-looking  face  with  a  pair  of  bright  yellow  eyes 
was  turned  toward  me.  Beckoning  to  my  friends  to 
approach  cautiously,  I  whispered  excitedly  as  they 
drew  near — "A  Long-eared  Owl,  for  all  the  world!'* 
We  were  nearly  under  the  nest,  and  had  a  fine  chance 
for  mutual  staring.  Then  I  began  to  ascend  the  tree, 
and  the  owl  flitted  silently  off  into  the  shrubbery.  The 
nest  was  certainly  an  old  crow's  nest  of  the  previous 
season,  slightly  repaired  on  top  by  the  addition  of  a  few 
sticks  and  leaves;  in  it  were  four  owlets  and  an  addled 
egg.  The  young  were  clad  in  whitish  down,  with  the 
"Juvenal"  plumage  beginning  to  show,  and  were  prob* 

64 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

ably  about  three  weeks  old.  As  I  was  examining  the 
odd  little  fellows,  the  mother  suddenly  alighted  upon  a 
branch  a  dozen  feet  from  me,  ear-tufts  erect,  eyes  fairly 
blazing,  feathers  ruffled,  snapping  her  bill  with  a  sharp 
clicking  sound,  and  uttering  wailing  cries  which  sounded 
much  like  the  yowling  of  an  angry  cat.  Indeed  she 
was  the  ideal  of  a  vixen,  as  she  flitted  from  limb  to 
limb,  with  an  occasional  angry  swoop  at  my  head,  so 
near  as  to  strike  it  with  her  wings,  uttering  a  harsh 
exclamation,  as  she  did  so,  which,  I  fear,  was  an  owl 
"swear  word."  After  we  all  had  inspected  this  prize, 
we  withdrew,  and  saw  the  mother  go  back,  almost  at 
once,  to  her  brooding. 

By  afternoon  the  rain  had  about  ceased  to  fall,  and, 
though  it  was  dark  and  cold  and  blustering,  as  we  were 
to  leave  the  locality  early  next  morning,  I  decided  to  try 
to  photograph  the  owl.  A  neighboring  tree,  only  six 
feet  from  the  nest,  gave  an  ideal  view  point  for  the 
camera.  I  had  just  finished  screwing  up  the  instru- 
ment, when  the  owl,  who  had  been  making  great 
protests  all  along,  fairly  outdid  herself.  She  actually 
alighted  on  my  head,  struck  her  claws  into  my  cap  and 
really  tried  to  drag  me  out  of  the  tree.  Though  spare 
in  build,  I  proved  too  heavy  for  her,  and  she  passed  on, 
assisted  by  an  accelerating  shove.  Then  for  awhile  I 
warded  her  off,  but,  when  I  was  off  my  guard,  she 
turned  her  attention  to  the  camera  and  alighted  on  the 
bellows,  into  which  she  sank  her  claws  in  vicious  frenzy. 
Finding  that  she  could  not  drag  either  of  us  off,  she 

65 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

desisted  from  the  attack.  So  I  attached  my  linen 
thread  to  the  shutter,  dropped  the  spool  to  the  ground, 
descended,  and  laid  my  line  of  communication  to  a  tree 
some  rods  away,  behind  which  I  hid. 

After  a  little  investigation  the  owl  returned  to  her 
nest  and  settled  down  right  before  the  staring  lens.  I 
could  now  have  pulled  the  thread  but  for  the  fact  that, 
owing  to  the  very  dull  light,  I  had  been  obliged  to  set 
the  shutter  for  a  timed  exposure  of  one  second,  and  the 
trees  were  swaying  violently,  lashed  by  the  gale.  In 
order  to  see  clearly  if  there  was  a  lull,  I  crept  up  close 
to  the  owl  tree  unobserved  and  waited,  thread  in  hand, 
for  the  desired  opportunity.  Half  an  hour  passed, 
without  a  moment  in  which  there  was  any  chance  of 
success.  While  thus  waiting,  I  was  treated  to  a  deli- 
cious little  episode  of  owl  life.  The  male  owl,  a  little 
smaller  than  the  efficient  guardian  of  his  children, 
sailed  suddenly  through  the  shrubbery  and  alighted 
upon  a  branch  near  the  ground,  hardly  ten  feet  from 
me.  He  had  seen  the  camera  and  was  all  alert.  In 
one  of  his  fluffy  paws  dangled  a  mouse,  held  by  the 
head,  which  he  had  evidently  just  caught  and  was 
bringing  to  feed  his  family.  He  did  not  see  me,  and  in 
a  moment,  satisfied  that  the  camera  was  harmless,  he 
flitted  up  to  the  nest.  His  mate  arose  to  welcome  him 
and  took  the  mouse,  whereupon  he  flew  off  energetically 
in  search  of  another.  Being  so  far  underneath  the 
nest  I  could  not  see  just  what  happened,  but  the 
mother  was  evidently  tearing  the  mouse,  dividing  it  up 

66 


THE    BIRD    OF    NIGHT 

amongst  her  hungry  young,  who  were  moving  about 
actively,  each  ready  for  its  share.  This  took  two  or 
three  minutes,  and  they  all  settled  down  as  before.  It 
was  fairly  maddening  not  to  have  light  for  a  snapshot 
of  the  six  owls  as  the  mouse  was  being  delivered  over. 
And  now,  as  there  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  of  any- 
thing better,  I  made  several  exposures  on  the  old  owl 
incubating,  and  on  the  young,  before  I  removed  the 
camera,  all  of  which  proved  to  be  blurred  by  the  swaying 
of  the  trees.  * 

The  next  morning  was  clear  and  cold  and  I  was 
there  at  five  o'clock,  but  the  old  owl  would  not  return 
to  the  nest  in  the  time  at  my  disposal.  My  chum  at 
length  came  and  fairly  dragged  me  away.  We  had  to 
drive  thirty  miles  to  take  a  train  to  a  point  further 
south.  A  week  later  we  returned  and  the  first  thing  I 
did  was  to  visit  the  owls.  The  nest  was  empty,  alas. 
But,  as  the  old  owl  was  "yowling"  about,  I  made 
search  and  found  the  youngsters  roosting  in  the  trees 
within  a  radius  of  ten  rods.  As  long  as  they  were  not 
handled  they  remained  in  their  "hiding  pose,"  motion- 
less, erect,  feathers  drawn  tightly  together,  making 
themselves  look  like  dead  stubs  and  blending  wonder- 
fully with  their  surroundings.  I  took  various  pictures 
of  them  in  the  hiding  places,  as  well  as  when  replaced 
in  the  nest.  The  old  bird  was  still  rather  aggressively 
inclined,  yet  it  was  very  hard  to  get  her  picture.  Finally 
I  noticed  that  she  often  alighted  upon  a  dead  treetop 
before  swooping.  So  I  rigged  my  cumbersome  tele- 

67 


THE   BIRD    OF    NIGHT 

photo  apparatus  up  in  the  tree,  focused  it  upon  the 
branch  where  I  expected  she  would  come,  and  waited. 
For  a  long  time  she  went  everywhere  but  to  the  right 
branch,  but  at  length  she  alighted  just  where  I  wanted 
her  and  was  still  for  exactly  the  required  half  second. 
Just  as  the  shutter  closed  the  restless  head  turned,  but 
photographically  the  owl  was  mine ! 

Whenever  I  think  of  those  Long-eared  Owls,  I  laugh 
to  recall  the  vision  of  a  man  up  a  tree,  a  savage  owl 
trying  to  lift  his  scalp,  making  such  a  tremendous  wail- 
ing and  screeching  that  a  party  of  dogs  lifted  up  their 
voices  and  finally  came  and  stood,  howling,  too,  around 
the  tree,  until  some  men  from  the  neighboring  farm, 
amazed  at  the  commotion,  joined  in  the  assembly,  and 
I,  to  "save  my  face"  and  avert  the  suspicion  of  insanity, 
was  compelled  to  add  my  voice  to  the  tumult  in  explana- 
tion of  the  comedy. 

There  is  only  one  other  large  owl  which  we  are  very 
likely  to  meet,  the  Short-eared  Owl,  a  bird  about  the 
size  of  the  Long-eared,  but  without  noticeable  ear- 
tufts.  It  generally  nests  further  north,  but  in  autumn 
we  are  likely  to  flush  it  from  the  ground  as  we  tramp 
over  marshes  and  meadows,  or  sometimes  moist,  bushy 
pastures.  Because  it  likes  such  places  it  is  often  called 
the  Marsh  Owl.  I  have  found  their  nests  in  the  grass 
out  on  the  wild  prairies  of  the  Northwest. 

In  the  Middle  States  and  in  the  South  one  may  find 
the  singular  looking  monkey-faced  Barn  Owl,  which 
hides  itself  awray  by  daytime  in  hollow  trees  or  old 

68 


THE   BIRD   OF    NIGHT 

buildings.  But  the  only  other  common  owl  is  the  little 
Screech  Owl.  Were  it  not  for  its  tremendous  cries, 
resembling  the  trilling  of  the  tree  toad,  which  are  often 
heard  even  in  towns  or  small  cities,  one  might  well 
suppose  that  the  bird  is  very  scarce  indeed.  The  Great 
Horned  and  Barred  Owls  do  not  mind  the  broad  day- 
light, but  our  little  friend  Screecher  prefers  to  hide  in  a 
hollow  tree,  or  even  a  building  until  the  dusk  of  even- 
ing. If  discovered  by  day,  it  appears  dazed  and  torpid, 
and  generally  refuses  to  come  out  of  its  hole,  unless 
dragged  by  force.  I  have  often  found  it  in  winter  by 
examining  the  ground  or  snow  under  woodpeckers' 
holes,  or  in  hollow  limbs,  in  orchards  or  woods.  When 
I  find  rounded  masses  of  bones  and  hair,  called  pellets, 
the  indigestible  remains  of  its  food  which  the  owl 
throws  up,  I  climb  to  the  hole  above,  put  in  my  hand, 
and  pull  out  the  owl,  which  usually  is  too  sleepy  to 
make  much  resistance. 

One  day  in  early  autumn  I  took  a  walk  out  into  the 
country.  At  the  edge  of  some  woods  I  noticed  an  old 
apple  tree  with  a  hollow  trunk  and  a  hole  about  as  high 
up  as  my  head.  I  thought  it  a  good  place  for  a  Screech 
Owl,  and  so  I  went  and  looked  in.  Something  was  in 
there  sure  enough,  for  I  could  see  two  round  shining 
orbs.  After  my  eyes  became  used  to  the  darkness  I 
could  see  that  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  Screech  Owl,  so 
I  put  in  my  hand  and  found  I  could  just  reach  it.  It 
did  not  struggle  or  bite  as  I  pulled  it  out,  and  I  put  it  in 
my  pocket  and  rode  home  with  it  on  my  bicycle,  to 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

keep  it  awhile  as  a  pet.  Captive  owls  do  not  get  very 
tame,  but  they  feed  heartily  on  raw  meat  and  do  well 
if  they  have  room  enough  to  exercise. 

Another  time  I  was  taking  a  bicycle  ride  when  I  came 
across  a  boy  who  had  caught  one  of  these  owls  in  the 
same  way  in  his  orchard.  I  happened  to  want  one  then 
to  study,  so  I  paid  him  for  it,  put  the  owl  in  my  pocket, 
and,  taking  the  precaution  to  pin  down  the  lapel, 
started  homeward.  When  I  was  about  halfway  back, 
I  felt  to  see  how  the  owl  was  getting  on,  and  found,  to 
my  chagrin,  that  it  had  escaped! 

Last  winter  one  of  these  owls  spent  his  sleepy  days 
in  a  hole  in  a  tree  right  on  the  main  street  of  the  village, 
about  twenty-five  feet  from  the  ground.  At  dusk  it 
would  poke  its  head  out  of  the  hole  and  gaze  around 
for  awhile,  then  crawl  out  and  perch  on  a  limb  nearby 
for  a  few  moments  before  flying  off  on  a  mousing 
expedition  or  to  catch  a  fat  English  Sparrow — for  its 
breakfast,  I  suppose  we  would  call  it,  as  our  night  is 
the  owl's  day.  The  boys  soon  discovered  the  owl's 
retreat,  and  would  throw  snowballs  at  the  hole,  to 
make  the  big-eyed  bird  come  to  the  door.  It  would 
only  look  out,  though,  toward  night.  Some  of  the  boys 
were  for  climbing  up  to  catch  it,  but  Ned  persuaded 
them  to  let  it  alone. 

In  bitter  winter  weather  the  poor  little  owls  had  a 
hard  time  of  it,  for  they,  as  well  as  some  other  kinds  of 
owls,  do  not  migrate  very  much,  and  they  crawl  in 
almost  anywhere  to  try  to  keep  warm.  One  of  them 

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THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

used  to  occupy  my  next  door  neighbor's  bird  box.  One 
Sunday  morning  the  sexton  was  starting  a  fire  in  the 
church  furnace  when  he  discovered  a  poor  little  Screech 
Owl,  blinking  in  the  smoke,  and  pulled  it  out  just  in 
time  to  save  its  life.  It  well  deserved  to  be  spared  this 
or  any  disaster,  for  it  is  a  fine  thing  for  a  town  to  have 
resident  Screech  Owls  to  keep  down  the  English  Spar- 
row nuisance.  There  is  a  village  not  far  from  where  I 
live  where  one  winter  a  Screech  Owl  stayed  all  the  time 
in  a  thick  spruce  right  by  the  post  office  and  ate  so 
many  sparrows  that  by  spring  there  were  hardly  any 
left.  They  are  great  mousers,  too,  as  are  most  kinds 
of  owls,  and  no  one  ought  to  kill  them.  The  one 
exception  is  the  Great  Horned  Owl,  which  is  liable  to 
make  great  inroads  on  poultry,  if  it  once  finds  its  way 
to  their  quarters,  though  generally  it  stays  in  the  woods 
and  feeds  mostly  on  rabbits,  skunks,  and,  unfortunately, 
the  Ruffed  Grouse.  * 

A  friend  of  mine  has  a  nice  aviary  of  domesticated 
wild  geese  and  ducks,  a  tract  of  meadow  close  to  the 
brook  beside  his  home,  fenced  in  with  wire,  but  not 
covered  overhead.  This  summer  he  began  to  lose  his 
ducks ;  every  morning  one  was  missing.  Finally,  when 
he  found  a  beautiful  Pintail  drake  dead  and  partly  eaten 
he  decided  that  the  intruder  must  be  the  Great  Horned 
Owl  which  hooted  off  on  the  mountain.  So  he  put  up 
a  fifteen-foot  pole  at  one  corner  of  the  yard,  with  a  steel 
trap  set  on  top  of  it.  The  owl  will  always  alight  on 
some  commanding  perch  and  look  around  before 

71 


THE    BIRD    OF    NIGHT 

pouncing.  He  expected  that  the  owl  would  alight  on 
this  stake  in  the  trap,  and  sure  enough,  at  daybreak  the 
next  morning,  the  guilty  owl  was  hanging  ignobly  from 
the  pole,  caught  by  one  foot.  A  charge  of  shot  put  an 
end  to  its  thieving  career.  But  this  is  the  exception, 
and  most  owls  deserve  better  treatment.  It  would  not 
be  fair  to  hate  all  boys  because  one  boy  was  mischievous, 
would  it,  Ned? 

The  Screech  Owl  lays  four  or  five  eggs,  which  are 
white,  like  all  other  owl's  eggs,  about  the  middle  of 
April,  at  the  bottom  of  a  cavity  in  a  tree.  It  likes  an 
old  orchard  very  well,  but  is  just  as  likely  to  locate  in 
the  woods.  Seldom  is  there  any  sign  of  occupancy 
about  the  hole,  and  the  owl  will  not  show  herself,  how- 
ever much  one  may  pound  the  tree.  The  nest  may  be 
right  by  one's  home,  but  it  is  hard  to  find.  The  only 
way  I  know  is  to  keep  looking  in  likely  holes,  especially 
in  a  neighborhood  where  the  owls  are  heard  at  night. 
I  have  found  several  nests,  but  only  because  I  looked  in 
several  thousand  holes.  The  brooding  owl  is  as  tame 
as  a  sitting  hen,  and,  like  them,  some  will  peck  and 
some  will  not,  when  you  pull  them  off  their  eggs.  The 
young  are  queer  little  fellows,  at  first  covered  with 
whitish  down,  which  changes  to  a  soft  gray  plumage. 
Later,  when  fully  feathered,  it  may  be  either  red  or 
gray  in  general  hue,  and  we  do  not  know  any  satis- 
factory reason  for  this  variation,  any  more  than  why 
some  people  have  brown  hair  and  others  red. 

There  is  another  little  owl,  even  smaller  than  the 
72 


THE    BIRD   OF    NIGHT 

Screech  Owl,  which  we  may  happen  upon  some  time. 
It  is  called  the  Saw-whet  Owl  because  its  love  song  in 
the  spring  reminds  one  of  the  rasping  of  sharpening  a 
saw.  Most  specimens  are  seen  in  fall  or  winter,  in 
bushy  pastures  or  cedar  swamp  thickets,  or  are  found 
dead  in  severe  weather  about  houses,  whither  they  have 
been  driven  in  a  last  vain  hope  of  finding  a  mouse  to 
keep  them  from  starving. 

A  hunter  whom  I  knew  caught  one  of  them  in  a  steel 
trap  set  for  mink  in  the  woods  in  March.  He  had  the 
little  sprite  in  a  room  in  his  house,  where  it  was  flying 
around  actively,  alighting  on  the  furniture.  I  was  glad 
enough  when  he  offered  it  to  me,  and  took  it  home  in  a 
box,  to  photograph  and  study  it.  The  next  day  I 
should  have  secured  a  series  of  pictures  of  it  from  life, 
but  a  furious  easterly  gale  was  raging  with  a  pouring 
rain,  and  it  was  very  dark.  As  the  conditions  were 
most  unfavorable,  I  waited  till  the  next  day,  and  was 
sorry  that  I  had  not  done  the  best  I  could  even  in  the 
storm,  for  the  little  creature  lay  dead  under  its  perch, 
and  I  have  never  yet  had  another  chance  to  photograph 
one. 

Had  I  begun  to  hunt  birds  with  the  camera  a  little 
sooner  than  I  did,  I  should  have  had  a  splendid  oppor- 
tunity to  picture  this  rather  rare  owl,  for  I  was  so 
fortunate  as  to  find  a  nest  eleven  years  ago.  The  bird 
usually  goes  further  north  to  breed,  and  this  was  the 
only  nest  I  ever  have  seen.  I  described  the  adventure 
quite  fully  in  "Wild  Wings,"  but  may  say  that  it  was 

73 


THE    BIRD    OF    NIGHT 

in  a  Flicker's  hole,  in  a  pine  stub,  and  the  bird  was  so 
tame  that  I  could  have  done  almost  anything  with  her. 
She  had  five  incubated  eggs  on  the  eighteenth  of  April. 

However,  I  did  manage  to  take  a  picture  of  a  Saw- 
whet.  Three  of  us  were  out  for  a  tramp  and  came  to  a 
horse  shed  at  the  edge  of  the  woods.  It  was  open,  so  I 
looked  in,  and  there  sat  a  tiny  Saw-whet  Owl  on  a  beam 
close  by.  The  owl  and  I  were  face  to  face,  and  we 
both  just  stood  and  stared  at  each  other  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. Presently  I  recovered  my  presence  of  mind  and 
backed  off  to  get  my  camera.  But  the  owl  likewise 
came  to  itself,  and,  flying  across  the  stable,  alighted  at 
a  hole  in  the  partition  which  led  into  an  outer  shed 
which  was  entirely  open  on  one  side.  If  once  it  got 
out  there,  it  was  a  "goner"  for  me.  f 

Seizing  my  camera  and  tripod  which  I  had  stood  up 
outside  the  door,  in  as  few  words  as  possible  I  told 
Ned  what  was  up  and  sent  him  around  on  the  run  to 
keep  the  Owl  from  flying  through.  When  he  appeared 
the  owl  faced  backward  toward  me,  seemingly  un- 
decided what  to  do.  Calling  to  Ned  to  wait,  I  planted 
the  camera  in  the  greatest  hurry,  focused  on  the  bird, 
and  exposed  two  plates,  long-timed,  of  course,  in  such  a 
dark  place,  but  fortunately  the  queer  little  subject  kept 
quite  still. 

Just  as  this  was  done,  the  owl  decided  to  flee  from 
Ned,  and  came  back  into  the  shed.  Ned  stopped  up 
the  hole,  and  then  we  all  tried  to  catch  Mr.  Saw-whet, 
one  of  us  guarding  the  entrance,  as  there  was  no  door. 

74 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

I  threw  my  cap  over  the  owl  and  it  fell  to  the  floor. 
We  each  made  a  grab  for  it  and  there  was  a  general 
mix-up,  but  somehow  the  bird  which  so  many  people 
think  is  blind  by  daylight  dodged  through  the  array  of 
legs  and  hands,  flying  out  of  the  door.  "Well,  I  never!" 
I  exclaimed  in  disgust.  "What  made  you  so  awkward, 
Ned?"  "Yes,  how  about  yourself?"  he  retorted. 

Severe  winter  weather  is  liable  to  bring  certain  rare 
boreal  owls  to  us  from  the  North.  The  best  known 
and  most  beautiful  of  these  is  the  Snowy  Owl,  that 
splendid  white  bird  which  we  associate  with  the  polar 
bear  and  icebergs.  There  is  apt  to  be  a  flight  of  them 
in  early  December,  if  at  all,  and  one  is  liable  to  meet  a 
specimen  anywhere  inland,  though  the  seacoast  is  the 
best  sort  of  region  to  find  them.  I  have  met  but  one  in 
my  life,  on  a  salt  marsh.  Another  greater  rarity  is  the 
Great  Gray  Owl,  a  Northern  species  closely  related  to 
the  Barred  Owl,  but  larger.  I  have  never  seen  it  alive. 

The  severe  winter  of  1906-7  brought  to  us  many 
Northern  birds.  On  the  twelfth  of  November,  1906,  a 
lady  was  driving  along  a  road  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
town  where  I  live.  She  came  upon  an  Indian  woman 
who  was  examining  something  lying  in  the  road.  It 
was  a  small  owl  which  had  somehow  perished.  Think- 
ing it  a  "cute"  little  thing,  she  brought  it  to  me  to  have 
it  mounted.  I  was  not  at  home,  but  met  her  at  the 
post  office.  "Could  I  get  you  to  stuff  it  for  me?"  she 
asked.  "Really,"  said  I,  "I  don't  see  how  I  can.  I  am 
just  going  away,  and  am  very  busy."  But  she  looked  so 

75 


THE   BIRD   OF   NIGHT 

disappointed  that  I  relented  and  took  it,  knowing  that 
it  would  keep  a  long  time  in  the  cold  weather.  It  was 
getting  dark  and  the  owl  appeared  to  be  a  Saw-whet. 
I  stuffed  it  in  my  pocket,  and  on  reaching  home  tossed 
it  up  on  a  shelf  in  the  woodshed,  where  it  remained  for 
weeks.  Finally  I  got  it  down  one  afternoon  and  was 
at  once  impressed  by  its  size,  for  I  now  saw  that  it  was 
nearly  as  big  as  a  Screech  Owl.  "That's  no  Saw-whet," 
my  wife  exclaimed,  as  I  rushed  for  the  reference  books. 
"Richardson's  Owl!"  I  shouted.  "What  a  find!"  It 
proved  to  be  the  second  one  ever  taken  in  Connecticut, 
the  only  other  having  been  recorded  by  Dr.  William 
Wood,  away  back  in  1861.  To  this  day  I  have  not 
gotten  over  the  sensation  which  comes  over  me  when  I 
think  of  how  near  I  came  to  missing  such  a  rare  find. 


CHAPTER  V 

STRANGE   BED-FELLOWS 

(Cuckoos  and  Kingfishers) 

I  CAN'T  see  for  the  life  of  me,"  said  Ned  one  day,  as 
we    were    driving    home    after    photographing    a 
Black-billed    Cuckoo    on    her    nest,   "why    in    the 
world  the  scientists  have  put  the  cuckoos  and  the  king- 
fishers together  in  the  same  group  in  their  classification. 
Why,  anyone  can  see  that  they  are  as  different  as  day 
is  from  night.     They  both  wear  feathers  and  fly,  and 
that  is  about  all  the  likeness  I  can  see!" 

"We  mustn't  be  hard  on  the  poor  scientists,"  I  replied. 
"They  have  a  hard  nut  to  crack.  There  are  a  number 
of  groups  of  species  which  are  so  different  that  they  do 
not  know  what  to  do  with  them.  Formerly  they  just 
gave  it  up  and  dumped  them  all  into  one  miscellaneous 
rag  bag — Picarian  or  woodpecker-like  birds  they  called 
them,  nicknaming  them  after  the  largest  of  the  groups. 
Now,  however,  they  have  found  a  better  home  for  each 
of  the  poor  orphans,  all  except  the  unfortunate  cuckoos 
and  kingfishers  and  some  foreign  tribes,  so  they  fixed 
up  a  smaller  catch-all  and  named  it  after  the  cuckoos 
— Coccyges,  the  Greek  for  cuckoos." 

77 


STRANGE   BED-FELLOWS 

"Well,"  said  Ned,  "I  should  think  that  such  strange 
bed-fellows  would  get  to  fighting,  but  I  suppose  that 
they  don't  realize  that  they  are  in  such  close  quarters." 

This  scientific  discourse  grew  so  absorbing  that,  as 
we  approached  the  railroad  track  I  forgot  to  "look  out 
for  the  engine,"  as  the  old  signs  used  to  say.  Just  as 
we  were  about  to  cross,  I  saw  the  evening  express  train 
swiftly  rushing  down  upon  us,  only  a  few  rods  away.  I 
had  to  think  quickly  what  to  do.  If  I  stopped  right 
there,  the  horse  would  certainly  shy  down  the  embank- 
ment, though,  of  course,  we  could  jump  out.  But  I 
thought  we  could  get  across  barely  in  time,  so  I  plied 
the  whip,  and  with  a  leap  we  went  flying  over,  having 
just  a  few  yards  to  spare  as  the  train  thundered  past. 
We  were  so  much  excited  that  we  forgot  all  about  the 
Coccyges  and  set  to  berating  the  engineer  for  not  having 
blown  the  whistle  on  approaching  the  grade  crossing. 
But  birds  are  very  fascinating,  and  ornithology  was  not 
knocked  out  of  us  for  very  long,  though  we  resolved  to 
put  prudence  ahead  of  it  in  future  when  crossing  the 
railroad  track.  And  now  that  we  are  safely  escaped 
we  will  return  to  the  cuckoos. 

The  nest  which  I  had  just  found  was  in  a  dense 
thicket  of  bushes,  a  few  rods  back  from  the  road  which 
passed  near  the  pond,  and  about  opposite  the  latter. 
It  was  the  seventh  of  June,  and  we  were  tramping  about 
in  a  large  tract  of  scrub  and  briers,  searching  for  birds' 
nests.  For  some  time  we  had  had  no  especial  luck, 
until,  as  I  poked  my  head  into  this  particular  thicket, 

78 


STRANGE    BED-FELLOWS 

there  right  before  me  I  saw  a  flimsy  nest  of  twigs  and 
stems.  On  it  sat  a  Black-billed  Cuckoo,  gazing  at  me 
in  alarm  with  her  large  hazel  eyes  which  were  bordered 
by  red  eyelids.  When  Ned  came  up  I  made  signs  to 
him  to  keep  very  quiet,  so  he  looked  on  while  I  set  up 
the  small,  long-focus  camera  on  the  tripod,  with  the 
eighteen-inch  lens.  Fortunately  there  was  a  small 
opening  through  the  bushes  to  the  nest,  with  nothing 
much  to  obstruct  the  view,  and,  after  taking  one  small 
picture  of  the  bird  from  where  I  was,  to  make  sure  of 
something,  I  pushed  the  tripod  and  camera  nearer  and 
nearer.  At  each  halt  I  made  another  exposure  and 
secured  a  larger  image  of  the  bird  on  the  plate.  Of 
course  I  was  very  careful  not  to  rustle  the  leaves  or 
step  on  a  dry  twig  or  make  any  sudden  motion.  The 
bird  actually  let  me  photograph  her  within  four  feet 
before  she  slipped  off  the  nest  and  disappeared  in  the 
shrubbery.  No  wonder  she  was  tame,  for  it  was  just 
hatching  time.  There  was  one  pipped  egg  in  the  nest, 
and  one  newly  hatched  young  one.  When  it  had 
crawled  out  of  the  shell,  it  had  taken  with  it  the  rounded 
end,  which  it  wore  on  its  head  as  a  close-fitting  blue 
skull-cap,  and  it  certainly  looked  very  comical.  While 
I  was  at  work  with  the  camera,  Ned's  sharp  eyes  spied 
out  a  Wood  Thrush  sitting  on  her  nest  in  a  low  sapling 
just  outside  the  brier  thicket,  not  more  than  twelve 
feet  from  the  cuckoo's  nest. 

A  few  days  later  we  visited  Mrs.  Cuckoo  again,  and 
found  her  brooding.     She  was  in  a  better  position,  with 

79 


STRANGE    BED-FELLOWS 

the  whole  of  her  long  tail  showing,  so  I  took  some  more 
pictures  of  her,  as  before.  When  she  left,  I  photo- 
graphed the  two  youngsters  in  their  rude,  hard  cradle. 
Ugly  brats  they  were  at  this  stage,  with  great  ungainly 
beaks,  all  out  of  proportion  to  their  size,  and  bristling 
with  pin  feathers.  The  nest,  as  usual,  was  almost  flat 
on  top,  and  somewhat  tilted  over  besides.  It  always 
seems  a  wonder  if  the  young  cuckoos  succeed  in  hanging 
on  to  the  nest.  That  they  sometimes  do  not,  I  know 
for  a  fact,  for  soon  afterward  I  found  this  nest  deserted, 
and  a  few  years  before  I  had  watched  another  nest  of 
this  species  in  the  same  locality,  down  by  the  pond  in 
a  bushy  swamp. 

This  nest  also  had  two  small  young,  which,  after  a 
severe  thunder  shower  and  wind,  disappeared.  Their 
home  was  a  most  unusual  one.  It  was  in  an  ordinary 
situation,  six  or  eight  feet  up  a  sapling.  But  near  by 
in  the  swamp  was  a  willow  bush  which  was  just  getting 
past  its  flowering  by  the  middle  of  May,  when  the 
cuckoos  began  to  build.  Instead  of  picking  up  sticks 
and  making  a  platform  so  frail  that  one  could  see  the 
eggs  through  it  from  below,  these  birds  had  constructed 
a  big,  soft,  nest,  very  deep,  though  flat  on  top,  almost 
entirely  out  of  willow  catkins  and  down.  They  de- 
served better  fortune  than  to  have  their  young  blown 
out  of  such  a  palatial  nursery — for  a  cuckoo! — and 
drowned.  But  this  is  the  lot  of  many  a  young  bird, 
even  from  the  best  of  bird  homes. 

We  have  two  kinds  of  cuckoos — Black-billed  and 
80 


Nest  of  Black-billed  Cuckoo.     Showing  the  newly  hatched  youngster  with  its  hh 
cap  (p.  79). 


Young  Black-billed  Cuckoos  in  nest.     "Bristling  with  pin-feathers"  (p.  80). 


STRANGE    BED-FELLOWS 

Yellow-billed,  which  are  hard  to  tell  apart,  unless  one 
gets  very  near  them,  which  is  not  easy  to  do.  They  are 
shy,  retiring  birds,  and  keep  mostly  in  the  thick  foliage. 
Bird  students  seldom  have  a  better  chance  to  examine 
a  cuckoo  in  life  and  see  how  useful  a  tribe  these  birds 
are  than  did  a  certain  company  of  young  ladies.  I  was 
giving  a  bird  lecture  at  Bradford  Academy,  Mass.,  and 
the  next  morning  took  an  early  bird  walk  with  a  party 
of  the  girls  and  a  teacher.  Beside  the  path  was  a  wild 
cherry  tree  which  was  stripped  bare  of  foliage  and 
contained  the  nest  of  the  despoilers,  some  sort  of  canker 
worm  or  caterpillar.  Perched  beside  this  was  a  Black- 
billed  Cuckoo,  breakfasting.  We  were  all  within 
twenty  feet  of  it,  and  watched  it  for  some  minutes  eat 
worm  after  worm,  which  it  took  from  the  nest.  If  we 
could  only  raise  cuckoos  enough,  we  might  conquer  the 
gypsy  moth,  that  most  expensive  pest. 

Were  it  not  for  the  loud,  harsh  " cow-cow"  notes  of 
the  cuckoos,  we  certainly  should  think  them  much 
rarer  than  they  are.  But  they  are  both  all  too  scarce, 
and  generally  the  Yellow-billed  kind  has  seemed  to  me 
the  rarer  of  the  two.  When  I  have  hunted  for  their 
nests  I  usually  have  had  no  success.  But  now  and  then 
I  have  happened  upon  a  nest  of  either  kind  when  I  was 
least  expecting  it.  Though  I  have  found  more  nests 
of  the  Yellow-billed  in  old,  retired  orchards,  I  have  also 
found  the  Black-billed  breeding  in  such  places,  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  they  differ  materially  in  the  sorts  of 
places  which  they  frequent.  > 

81 


STRANGE   BED-FELLOWS 

The  very  opposite  in  temperament  is  the  Belted  King- 
fisher, our  only  species  of  this  interesting  sub-order. 
No  bird  is  more  conspicuous  than  this  most  royal 
fisherman  of  all  our  small  land  birds,  sounding  its  loud 
rattle  as  it  flies  over  land  or  stream,  or  perching  on 
some  conspicuous  stub  by  the  shore  from  which  it  can 
watch  for  the  small  fish  to  rise  to  the  surface.  Suddenly 
it  plunges  headlong  into  the  water  with  a  loud  splash, 
and,  emerging,  flies  off  with  a  triumphant  announce- 
ment, like  the  hen,  which  tries  to  publish  world-wide 
the  glorious  fact  that  she  has  laid  an  egg. 

Sometimes,  though  rarely,  the  kingfishers  are  seen 
in  the  land  of  ice  and  snow  during  the  winter,  but  at 
any  rate  they  come  back  early,  toward  the  end  of 
March  or  in  early  April.  Before  long  they  get  to  work 
digging  their  nesting  burrows  in  some  gravel  bank  not 
far  from  water,  though  not  necessarily  right  by  the 
shore.  Often  they  choose  a  cut  in  a  road  or  railway, 
or  a  spot  where  a  farmer  has  excavated  for  sand  or 
gravel.  They  are  great  diggers  and  go  in  as  much  as 
six  feet,  with  turns  in  the  tunnel,  too,  to  avoid  rocks. 
At  the  end  there  is  a  wider  chamber  or  pocket  where 
six  or  seven  good-sized  white  eggs  are  laid  on  the  earth, 
surrounded  by  an  ever-increasing  pile  of  fish  bones, 
the  remains  of  the  regular  fish  dinners. 

In  years  past  I  had  seen  various  kingfishers'  holes, 
and  had  dug  one  out  to  examine  the  nest  and  young, 
but  I  had  no  photographs.  So,  when  I  realized  that 
a  certain  chapter  must  be  written  and  needed  king- 

82 


STRANGE    BED-FELLOWS 

fisher  adornments,  I  had  to  hustle  to  get  some  pictures, 
before  it  was  too  late  in  the  season.  Ned  was  a  good 
fellow  to  consult  on  such  important  business,  and  he 
remembered  two  places  where  he  had  seen  kingfisher 
burrows,  so  we  rounded  them  up  at  once.  The  first 
was  in  a  pasture,  where  road  makers  had  dug  out 
gravel,  and  left  a  steep  bank.  There  was  no  burrow 
there  this  year,  though  later  in  the  season  I  saw  where 
the  pair  had  nested,  in  a  bank  about  half  a  mile  further 
on,  by  the  roadside.  The  other  location  was  near  the 
pond,  where  the  railroad  had  been  cut  through.  It 
did  not  take  long  to  discover  two  round  clear-cut  holes 
of  just  the  right  size— kingfishers'  work  without  a 
doubt.  One  did  not  go  in  very  far,  as  the  birds  had 
struck  rock.  So  they  had  tried  again  a  few  feet  away, 
and  this  one  was  evidently  complete,  for  it  went  in 
further  than  I  could  reach.  No  birds  were  in  sight, 
yet  I  felt  sure  it  was  a  new  burrow. 

It  was  so  late  in  the  season  that  I  feared  the  young 
had  already  flown.  So  the  next  day,  the  twenty-sixth 
of  June,  as  I  was  about  to  drive  by  this  spot  with  my 
wife  and  baby  girl,  I  took  along  a  shovel,  and  hitched 
the  horse  by  the  roadside  at  the  nearest  point  to  the 
burrow,  telling  my  wife — with  some  misgivings — that 
it  would  only  take  me  a  few  minutes  to  dig  in  far 
enough  to  find  out  whether  the  nest  was  occupied,  and 
if  it  was  I  would  take  the  photographs  later.  I  took 
the  camera  along,  though,  to  photograph  the  site  be- 
fore I  disfigured  it.  After  taking  the  picture,  I  started 


STRANGE    BED-FELLOWS 

to  dig,  when  suddenly  a  kingfisher  popped  out  its  head 
and  was  just  preparing  to  fly  away,  when  I  grabbed  it. 
"Aha!"  thought  I,  "here  is  the  mother  bird,  and  I'll 
have  her  picture  too!"  Just  then  another  bird  came 
out  of  the  burrow,  almost  like  a  cannon  ball,  and  flew 
off  before  I  could  try  to  stop  it.  So  the  father  bird  was 
in  there  also?  Then,  to  my  astonishment  out  went 
another,  and  then  another  tried  it,  but  this  one  I  caught, 
putting  both  into  my  camera  case.  A  regular  eruption 
of  kingfishers  was  in  progress,  a  miniature  Vesuvius 
in  action.  Really  I  cannot  tell  how  many  kingfishers 
came  out;  I  lost  count  in  the  excitement;  but  I  think 
it  was  eight,  possibly  only  seven.  Of  course  I  knew 
now  that  this  was  the  brood  of  young  ones,  fully  grown 
and  fledged,  in  beautiful  plumage.  I  had  caught  four; 
the  others  flew  over  to  the  pond,  all  but  one  which 
alighted  on  the  railroad  track.  Fearing  that  a  train 
would  come  along  and  kill  it,  I  tried  to  drive  it  off,  but 
it  kept  flying  along  the  rail  and  alighting  on  it,  and  I 
had  to  chase  it  a  quarter  of  a  mile  before  it  flew  off  to 
one  side. 

Here  was  a  pretty  quandary.  A  heavy  thunder 
shower  was  fast  approaching,  the  wife  and  baby  were 
there  in  the  woods,  but  if  I  left  the  young  kingfishers, 
it  would  probably  be  all  up  with  my  kingfisher  photo- 
graphs for  this  chapter.  So  I  thought  I  would  get  a 
few,  any  way,  and  hurried  to  focus  the  camera  on  the 
entrance  to  the  burrow,  after  which  I  put  one  of  the 
young  back  into  the  hole.  Immediately  it  tried  to  get 

84 


Young  Kingfisher  leaving  nest-burrow.     "  Immediately  it  tried  to  get  out "  (p.  84) . 


Young  Kingfishers.     "On  an  overturned  tree-stump"  (p.  85). 


STRANGE    BED-FELLOWS 

out  again,  but  the  lens  caught  it,  and  then  my  hand, 
this  operation  being  repeated  several  times.  Then  I 
put  two  of  the  lively  youngsters  up  on  an  overturned 
tree  stump  and  roots,  which  the  workmen  had  dug  out 
when  they  straightened  the  railroad.  Like  most  young 
birds,  they  acted  in  an  exasperated  manner,  delaying 
me  while  the  shower  came  nearer  and  nearer.  I  was 
determined,  now,  to  get  this  picture  at  almost  any  cost, 
knowing  that  with  a  top  buggy  my  family  would  not 
be  quite  drowned.  Finally  I  made  my  last  of  several  ex- 
posures just  as  the  first  of  the  big  drops  began  to  fall. 
Under  the  rubber  cloth  I  packed  away  my  camera. 
Then  I  put  the  young  birds  back  into  the  burrow, 
waiting  a  moment  to  drive  them  back  as  they  tried  to 
come  out.  Then,  gathering  up  my  things,  I  raced  for 
the  buggy  in  the  increasing  downpour.  The  family 
were  not  there.  In  alarm  at  the  approach  of  the 
tempest  they  had  put  for  the  next  farmhouse,  where  I 
found  them  when  the  storm  had  nearly  spent  itself. 
They  were  none  the  worse  for  it,  nor  was  I,  though  wet 
and  plastered  with  mud.  But  I  am  glad  that  I  did  it, 
because  I  have  the  pictures  to  show  for  my  pains. 

This  episode  amused  Ned  very  much.  He  wished 
he  had  been  present  to  see  it  all,  and  I  certainly  had 
earnestly  wished  that  he  was  there  to  help  me  manage 
those  contrary  young  birds.  I  could  have  finished 
then  before  it  rained.  Sometimes,  in  photographing 
birds  it  is  best  to  be  alone,  but  again  an  assistant  is  an 
exceedingly  great  convenience.  But  Ned  had  his 

SS 


STRANGE    BED-FELLOWS 

innings  before  very  long,  and  had  the  fun  all  to  himself 
at  that.  He  was  fishing  on  the  river  bank,  sitting 
among  some  nettles.  A  very  small  fish  got  hooked, 
and  before  taking  it  off  he  allowed  it  to  stay  in  the 
water  and  watched  it  as  it  tried  to  get  away.  But 
other  sharp  eyes  were  watching,  too.  A  kingfishe^ 
had  been  flying  about,  catching  a  fish  now  and  then. 
It  spied  the  fish  that  was  hooked  and  became  so  in- 
terested that  it  forgot  Ned.  What  should  it  do,  before 
deciding  to  pounce  on  the  fish,  but  alight  on  the  fish- 
pole  which  Ned  was  holding,  out  near  the  end.  Ned 
was  so  surprised  that  he  almost  dropped  the  pole,  but, 
recovering  his  presence  of  mind,  hung  on  and  enjoyed 
the  strange  proceeding.  The  bird  looked  big  and  felt 
very  heavy,  so  much  so  that  after  about  a  minute, 
which  seemed  like  quite  a  long  time,  Ned  could  not 
help  dropping  the  pole  a  little,  and  the  eager  fisher, 
which  was  about  to  dive  after  the  fish,  became  alarmed 
and  flew  away.  I  showed  Ned  a  stuffed  kingfisher, 
but  he  says  that  his  kingfisher  was  larger  and  hand- 
somer, better  in  every  way. 


86 


CHAPTER  VI 

KNIGHTS   OF  THE   CHISEL 

(Woodpeckers) 

NED,"  said  I  one  day,  "I  wish  you'd  keep  your  eyes 
open  for  a  good  woodpecker's  hole  situated  so 
that  I  might  be  able  to  get  some  pictures  of  the 
old  bird  at  the  entrance.     You  know  we've  got  pictures 
of  some  of  them  eating  suet,  but  I  haven't  anything 
about  their  nesting,  and  we  must  have  it  for  the  book.'* 

"What  kind  you  want?"  he  asked,  stopping  for  a 
moment  his  operations  on  his  broken  butterfly  net. 

"Why,  an  Arctic  Three-toed,  or  a  Pileated,  would 
suit  me  tiptop,"  I  ventured. 

"Oh,  you  go  chase  yourself!"  exclaimed  the  fancier 
of  the  "butterfly  etude."  (Ned  was  as  fond  of  music 
as  of  birds  and  butterflies.)  "Do  you  think  I'm  going 
to  climb  the  North  Pole  to  find  those  rare  things? 
Give  me  something  easier." 

"All  right,"  said  I.  "I'll  relent  and  give  you  the 
commonest  kind  there  is,  the  fellow  so  well  known  that 
he  has  any  number  of  names — Flicker,  Yellow-hammer, 
High-hole,  or,  if  you  want  to  be  more  swell,  Golden- 
winged  Woodpecker.  Do  you  think  you  could  find 
one?" 

87 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

"  I'm  sure  I  can  find  Flickers'  nests,"  he  responded, 
but  maybe  they'll  all  be  up  in  rotten  stubs  a  mile  high. 
"But  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

So  we  both  were  rivals  as  to  who  would  do  the  best. 
I  found  the  first,  because  I  was  out  the  most,  while 
poor  Ned  was  shut  up  in  school  studying  Latin,  which 
he  doesn't  enjoy  overmuch,  yet  finds  it  useful  in  learn- 
ing the  scientific .  names  of  the  birds.  I  tell  him  that 
if  he  doesn't  get  his  Latin  lessons  those  big  long  bird 
names  will  stick  in  his  throat.  It  needs  considerable 
vocal  lubrication  from  classical  study  to  call  a  Red- 
headed Woodpecker  a  Melanerpes  erythrocephalus,  but 
it  can  be  done,  for  Ned  has  accomplished  it.  But  we 
will  let  him  escape  from  school  this  fourteenth  of  May 
and  drive  five  miles  to  see  a  few  hawks'  nests — Broad- 
winged,  Cooper's,  and  Red-tailed,  all  within  less  than 
a  mile,  and  incidentally  my  Flicker's  hole.  The  bird 
was  still  digging  it  out,  and  as  we  approached  we  could 
see  some  long  thing  sticking  out  and  jerking  up  and 
down  like  a  pump  handle.  It  was  the  Flicker's  tail! 
She  had  chiseled  into  the  chestnut  stub  with  her  power- 
ful bill  deep  enough  to  hide  all  of  her  but  her  tail. 
And  she  was  working  hard,  too,  but  she  did  not  keep 
it  up  long  enough  to  violate  the  rules  of  the  labor 
union— "the  I.  O.  K.  C"— Ned  and  I  call  it,  or  the 
"Independent  Order  of  the  Knights  of  the  Chisel." 
They  do  not  allow  even  an  eight-hour  day  on  a  house 
contract,  but  on  the  other  hand  compel  a  frightfully 
long  service  in  chiseling  for  the  festive  grub.  This 

$8 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

bird  was  building  only  about  ten  feet  up,  at  the  edge 
of  the  Cooper's  Hawk  grove,  and,  though  there  was 
no  other  tree  close  by  on  which  to  rig  the  camera,  I 
thought  I  could  manage  somehow  to  get  a  picture,  if 
nothing  better  turned  up. 

But  we  discovered  plenty  more  nests.  One  day  I 
found  as  many  as  half  a  dozen  in  a  tract  of  woods 
where  the  trees  were  dying  from  an  excess  of  water. 
Unfortunately  every  one  of  them  was  high  up.  Another 
nest  was  in  the  midst  of  unusual  life  and  activity, 
though  in  lonely  woods  well  up  the  side  of  a  hill.  The 
Flickers  had  dug  a  hole  twenty  feet  up  a  dead  chestnut 
stub.  Fifteen  feet  higher,  at  the  top,  a  pair  of  flying 
squirrels  had  young  in  the  Flicker's  last  year  hole.  At 
the  base  of  the  stub,  under  some  rocks,  were  two  en- 
trances to  an  occupied  fox  burrow.  Evidently  the 
young  foxes  played  there,  for  the  ground  was  thoroughly 
trampled,  and  at  one  front  door  were  turkey  bones 
and  feathers  and  some  fresh  green  leaves.  Within  a 
few  rods  a  pair  of  Oven-birds  had  a  nest  on  the  ground, 
surprisingly  well  concealed,  for  even  the  foxes  had  not 
found  it.  Besides  this,  a  Red-eyed  Vireo  couple  had 
built  in  the  fork  of  a  sapling,  just  out  of  Reynard's 
reach,  and  a  somber-hued  female  Scarlet  Tanager 
brooded  higher  up,  out  on  the  extended  branch  of  an 
oak. 

But  after  all  Ned  beat  me,  for  he  found  the  best  nest 
of  all,  and  handy  to  home  at  that.  It  was  in  an  apple 
tree  in  an  orchard,  on  the  west  side  where  it  had  some 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

of  the  late  afternoon  sun,  up  in  the  spreading  part  of 
the  tree,  with  branches  in  front  of  the  hole  where  a 
camera  could  be  remarkably  well  hidden.  So,  one 
bright  afternoon,  I  made  a  visit  there.  Madam  Flicker 
flew  out,  and  I  screwed  up  the  small  camera  in  fhe 
favorable  spot,  covering  it  with  green  branches,  and 
then,  having  attached  the  thread,  hid  behind  the  next 
apple  tree.  In  a  short  time  I  heard  the  Flicker's 
"yawp."  She  flew  from  a  tree  near  by  directly  to  the 
entrance  of  the  hole,  where  she  paused  for  an  instant, 
giving  me  a  good  chance  for  the  exposure,  and  then 
went  in  to  her  eggs  without  noticing  the  camera,  or 
paying  more  than  momentary  heed  to  the  click  of  the 
shutter. 

I  walked  off  for  a  few  minutes  to  let  her  warm  her 
eggs,  and  then,  as  I  approached,  a  Flicker  flew  from 
the  tree.  I  changed  the  plate  and  then  waited  and 
waited,  but  no  bird  came  back.  This  was  puzzling, 
for  everything  seemed  to  be  right,  and  I  was  pretty 
well  concealed.  At  last,  just  as  I  was  about  to  go  to 
see  if  anything  was  wrong,  a  Flicker  stuck  its  head  out 
of  the  nest  hole,  and  then  withdrew  it,  after  I  had  pulled 
the  thread  and  got  a  good  picture.  I  went  to  the  camera 
but  no  bird  flew  out.  "Can  it  be,"  I  thought,  "that 
the  bird  was  a  full-fledged  young  one,  for  it  is  only  the 
eighth  of  June?"  However,  I  decided  to  make  sure, 
so  I  put  my  hand  and  arm  into  the  hole.  I  could  feel  a 
bird,  but  it  did  not  peck  or  bite,  so  I  drew  it  out  by  the 
bill,  though  it  hung  back  some.  It  was  the  mother 

90 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

bird.  After  stroking  her  I  opened  my  hand  and  away 
she  went.  Now  I  could  just  touch  eggs  at  the  bottom, 
as  deep  down  as  I  could  reach. 

The  picture  of  the  bird  by  the  hole  was  not  very  good, 
as  the  side  of  her  toward  the  camera  was  shaded,  so  I 
tried  again,  and  set  a  mirror  on  the  grass  throwing  a 
strong  beam  on  the  hole  and  below  it.  Now  I  was  in 
for  all  sorts  of  trouble.  The  bird  was  afraid  of  the 
mirror  and  would  not  brave  it  for  quite  a  while,  though 
she  did  in  time.  Meanwhile  the  sun  changed  position 
and  the  reflection  fell  too  low.  When  I  went  and 
altered  it  the  bird  saw  me  and  stayed  away  longer. 
Then,  as  I  waited  I  noticed  that  the  light  was  cut  off 
and  returned  in  rather  an  erratic  manner.  I  was  down 
the  slope  of  the  hill  and  could  not  see  the  mirror,  so 
crept  up  higher  to  investigate,  and  was  surprised  and 
amused  to  see  a  cow  standing  with  her  head  lowered, 
gazing  threateningly  at  the  imaginary  cow  before  her. 
I  really  think  that  in  another  moment  she  would  have 
"  tossed  "  her  likeness  had  I  not  driven  her  off.  Some- 
how she  had  managed  to  step  over  the  thread  without 
touching  it,  which  was  fortunate,  as  she  might  have 
wrecked  the  shutter  before  breaking  the  strong  linen 
thread.  She  was  bound,  though,  to  come  back  and 
get  satisfaction  from  the  supposed  bovine  usurper,  so 
I  had  to  keep  driving  her  back.  The  bird  returned 
several  times,  though  the  light  was  never  where  I 
wanted  it.  I  tried  short  timed  exposures,  but  in  each 
the  bird  proved  to  have  moved,  for  the  young,  now 

91 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

hatched,  were  clamoring  for  food,  making  that  horrible 
buzzing  noise  which  sounds  like  a  nest  of  snakes. 
Naked  and  scrawny,  they  looked  as  hideous  as  they 
sounded.  But  I  secured  one  instantaneous  exposure 
on  the  bird  in  dull  light,  which,  though  very  thin, 
printed  quite  well  on  contrasty  developing  paper,  and 
was  the  best  which  I  secured. 

I  waited  a  few  days  more  till  I  thought  the  youngsters 
would  have  some  feathers,  and  went  to  photograph 
them.  No  buzzing  greeted  me,  and  I  was  shocked. 
Putting  my  hand  into  the  hole,  I  drew  out  the  putrid 
body  of  one  of  the  young,  without  feathers.  Appar- 
ently the  others,  unable  to  endure  this  horrible  condi- 
tion, had  climbed  out  before  their  full  time,  or  else  they 
had  grown  faster  than  I  had  supposed  possible.  But 
what  should  I  do  for  photographs  of  young  woodpeckers 
for  my  series?  It  was  now  so  late  in  the  season  that  I 
feared  that  all  young  Flickers  had  left  their  nests.  As 
soon  as  I  could,  I  made  the  round  of  most  of  the  nests 
I  had  previously  seen.  In  every  case  I  was  too  late. 
Then  I  heard  of  a  nest  on  someone's  front  lawn,  in  a 
maple  tree,  where  very  recently  the  young  were  looking 
out  and  being  fed  by  their  parents.  That  very  evening 
I  drove  to  the  place,  and  to  my  joy  found  that  the  young 
were  there  and  in  just  the  right  condition  to  photograph. 

The  next  morning,  July  fifth,  I  was  early  at  work. 
The  hole  was  twenty  feet  up  the  elm,  an  enlarged  knot 
hole.  The  young  drew  back  when  I  tried  to  get  hold 
of  them.  The  hole  was  too  small  for  my  hand,  and 

92 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

the  wood  too  hard  for  my  knife,  so  I  borrowed  a  dull 
hatchet  and  finally,  standing  on  the  spikes  of  my 
climbing  irons,  with  great  difficulty  managed  to  enlarge 
the  entrance  enough  to  reach  in.  There  were  three 
young,  which  I  put  in  my  creel,  and  a  dead  one  full  of 
maggots.  What  a  horrible  time  young  woodpeckers 
must  have  in  these  pestilential  holes!  I  noticed, 
though,  that  they  kept  up  from  the  bottom,  and  clung 
to  the  sides  near  the  entrance,  thus  being  able  to  stand 
it — in  more  senses  than  one. 

At  first  when  I  tried  to  pose  them  before  the  camera 
— clinging  to  a  tree  trunk,  on  a  post,  or  ranged  along  a 
branch — they  were  very  unruly.  But  in  time,  like 
most  young  birds,  they  finally  wearied  of  trying  to 
escape  and  submitted  to  the  inevitable.  One  was 
particularly  lively  and  troublesome,  doubtless  the  one 
which  got  the  most  food.  The  people  of  the  house  had 
been  watching  the  feeding  process,  and  had  noticed 
that  one  youngster  seemed  to  cling  by  the  entrance  for 
hours  at  a  time  and  block  the  others,  getting  most  of 
the  feeding  from  the  stupid  or  partial  parents.  Having 
photographed  them,  I  put  them  back  in  the  hole,  after 
cleaning  it  out  and  partly  filling  it  with  grass.  The 
old  birds  had  been  quite  concerned  and  soon  one  of 
them  came  sliding  down  the  trunk,  making  a  rather 
pretty  plaintive  whining  call  which  set  the  youngsters 
almost  frantic,  for  they  well  knew  what  it  meant.  She 
was  a  little  shy  of  the  group  watching  her,  but  she  soon 
went  and  fed  the  first  one  that  stuck  out  his  head.  It 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

was  the  smallest  of  them  which  I  had  stationed  at  the 
entrance  that  he  might  get  the  start  of  his  tyrannical 
stronger  brother. 

Ned  was  too  deep  in  Fourth  of  July  and  its  aftermath 
to  come  with  me.  He  wanted  to  photograph  them, 
though,  so  next  day  we  made  another  visit,  but  the 
tender-hearted  mistress  of  the  place  was  so  fearful  that 
the  old  birds  would  get  frightened  off  by  too  much 
photographing  that  we  gave  it  up,  and  drove  on  to 
more  exciting  adventures,  which  shall  later  be  described. 

As  our  minds  were  on  woodpeckers,  it  was  but 
natural  that  we  should  talk  about  them.  Ned  asked 
me  to  tell  him  about  some  of  the  kinds  which  he  had 
never  seen  alive,  and  I  was  willing  enough,  for  it  is 
always  pleasant  to  share  with  others  the  enjoyment  we 
have  had  with  the  birds.  Besides  the  Flicker,  the  only 
others  which  were  familiar  to  Ned  were  the  Downy  and 
Hairy  Woodpeckers,  both  of  which,  especially  the 
former,  are  common  with  us  all  the  year  around. 
Besides  these  he  has  seen  the  beautiful  one  with  varie- 
gated plumage,  the  Yellow-bellied  Sapsucker,  which 
we  have  only  as  a  spring  and  fall  migrant  and  never 
seems  very  common,  though  they  say  that  plenty  of 
them  nest  in  the  forests  of  northern  New  England. 
This  is  the  kind  which  bores  so  many  small  round  holes 
in  apple  trees,  sometimes  for  finding  grubs,  but  also  to 
drink  the  sap. 

Then  there  is  the  Red-headed  Woodpc  jker,  red, 
white  and  blue,  a  gaudy  bird,  with  its  flaming  illiant 

94 


Ned  got  the  Hairy  Woodpecker  Downy  Woodpecker  attracted  by  suet, 

(p.  100).  "  Every  one  ought  to  feed  the 

birds  "(p.  98). 


Downy  Woodpecker.     Angry  at  a  cat,  raising  its  crest  (p.  99). 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

red  head  and  neck.  This  spring  about  the  middle  of 
May,  a  pair  of  them  put  in  their  appearance  at  a  farm 
some  two  miles  from  where  I  live.  They  seemed  to 
like  it  and  stayed  about  the  row  of  fine  old  sugar 
maples  and  other  shade  trees  along  the  street.  Ned  and 
I  did  hope  that  they  would  remain  for  the  summer,  but 
in  a  few  days  they  grew  restless  and  moved  on.  Years 
and  years  ago  they  used  to  be  quite  plenty  in  New 
England,  but  now  they  are  rare  and  we  must  go  further 
south  and  west  to  find  them.  When  I  was  a  boy,  a 
flock  of  them  came  to  the  suburbs  of  Boston  and  stayed 
all  the  fall,  and  a  few  well  into  the  winter.  I  could 
almost  always  find  them  in  a  certain  grove  of  nice  large 
oaks,  and  I  improved  this  only  opportunity  I  ever  had 
to  know  them  till  I  extended  my  bird  searchings  to 
other  sections. 

There  is  another  of  this  gentry  of  the  chisel  which 
has  mostly  disappeared  from  the  middle  districts  where 
it  was  once  well  known,  the  great  black  and  white 
Pileated  Woodpecker,  which  is  as  big  as  a  crow.  It  is 
common  yet  in  the  north  woods,  and,  curiously,  in  the 
extreme  south.  I  have  met  it  in  Florida,  and  it  seemed 
strange  enough  to  see  these  great  climbers,  which 
seemed  too  large  to  be  woodpeckers.  They  make  a 
prodigious  noise  with  their  hammering,  and  tear  off 
great  strips  of  bark  from  decaying  trees.  They  are 
only  rarely  seen  in  southern  New  England.  I  know 
two  reliable  people  who  have  seen  them  in  western 
Connecticut  quite  recently;  one  instance  was  of  a 

95 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

specimen  in  winter,  and  the  other  of  a  pair  actually 
breeding. 

There  is  always  a  bare  possibility  in  winter  of  running 
across  one  of  the  rare  northern  woodpeckers  charac- 
terized by  having  but  three  toes  on  each  foot.  Of  these 
there  are  two  kinds,  the  Arctic  Three-toed  and  the 
American  Three-toed  Woodpeckers.  Though  I  never 
have  had  the  luck  to  meet  one  alive,  I  look  carefully  at 
every  woodpecker  I  see  in  winter,  hoping  that  it  may 
prove  to  be  one  of  these.  A  very  few  have  been  recorded 
south  of  the  northern  tier  of  States,  and  some  fine  day 
Ned  or  I  may  be  among  the  fortunate  discoverers. 

We  began  this  chapter  with  a  common  woodpecker, 
so  we  will  end  it  by  telling  of  two  familiar  birds  which 
are  so  much  alike  that  many  people  see  no  difference 
between  them — the  Hairy  and  the  Downy  Woodpeckers. 
These  are  the  black  and  white  spotted  ones,  so  often 
seen  about  our  homes,  especially  in  the  winter,  when 
hunger  and  cold  drive  them  to  us  for  succor.  They 
are  almost  exactly  alike  in  plumage,  but  the  Hairy 
Woodpecker  is  much  the  larger,  having  about  double 
the  weight  of  the  little  Downy.  But  why  this  one 
should  have  been  called  "Hairy"  instead  of  the  other  is 
too  much  of  a  sticker  for  me.  Both  kinds  have  hairy 
bristles  protecting  the  base  of  the  bill.  The  larger  one 
may  have  been  named  first,  and  so  the  little  fellow  had 
to  take  any  old  name  they  could  fix  up.  Surely  it  is  no 
more  downy  in  plumage  than  any  other  small  bird. 
But  this  is  just  as  reasonable  as  many  other  names — of 

96 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

birds  or  of  people.  The  male  of  each  of  these  wears 
a  distinguishing  patch  of  red  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
while  the  females  are  plain  black  and  white. 

"Hairy"  is  the  more  northerly  in  range  of  the  two,  and 
its  nest  is  not  so  often  found  as  the  Downy's.  Both  of 
them  generally  nest  in  the  woods  or  swamps,  but  Downy 
often  does  so  in  an  orchard  or  in  shade  trees  near  the 
house.  The  first  nest  of  the  Hairy  which  I  ever  found 
was  in  the  woods  near  a  Barred  Owl's  nest.  I  was 
making  an  afternoon  call  on  Mrs.  Owl,  when  I  heard  a 
woodpecker  hammering  away  very  steadily.  Follow- 
ing the  sound,  I  found  a  female  Hairy  Woodpecker 
excavating  her  hole  about  fifteen  feet  up  in  the  trunk 
of  a  perfectly  sound  young  oak.  This  bird  is  very 
hardy  and  is  among  the  first  of  the  birds  to  set  up 
housekeeping  in  the  spring,  along  with  the  Bluebird 
and  Robin.  This  was  the  middle  of  April,  and  on  the 
twenty-ninth  I  found  her  incubating  four  eggs  in  her 
completed  mansion.  The  wood  was  as  hard  as  flint, 
and  it  seems  wonderful  that  any  bird  by  "butting"  its 
head  against  material  that  turns  the  edge  of  a  knife 
blade  should  be  able  to  dig  out  a  burrow  a  foot  and  a 
half  deep. 

In  the  overflowed  tract  of  woodland  to  which  I  have 
already  alluded,  where  Flickers  breed  so  abundantly, 
every  year  the  Hairy  and  Downy  are  also  to  be  found — 
if  one  is  willing  to  put  on  long  rubber  boots  and  wade 
about  among  the  slippery  and  slimy  submerged  branches 
tumbling  now  and  then  into  a  hole.  Almost  always  I 

97 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

get  in  over  my  boot  tops  when  I  try  it.  My  wife  thinks 
it  is  an  abominable  place,  but  Ned  and  I  call  it  one  of 
the  best  in  town,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal.  Both 
of  these  woodpeckers  drill  their  holes  in  the  dead  stubs, 
pretty  well  up,  especially  Hairy,  who  has  young  well 
grown  by  the  time  Downy  has  eggs.  Both  kinds  make  a 
great  fuss  when  we  intrude  upon  their  eggs,  especially 
if  they  have  young.  Indeed,  the  Hairies  are  so  inclined 
to  borrow  trouble  that  they  begin  to  scold  and  chatter 
as  soon  as  they  see  us  coming,  and  give  away  the  very 
secret  wThich  they  are  so  anxious  to  conceal. 

When  the  cold  winds  blow  from  the  icy  north  and 
the  ground  is  white  with  its  winter  carpet,  everyone 
ought  to  feed  the  birds.  It  is  delightful  to  see  how 
general  this  custom  has  become.  Hang  up  a  piece  of 
fat  meat  on  a  tree  near  your  window,  out  of  reach  of 
cats  and  dogs,  or  even  on  the  window  sill,  and  you  will 
be  delighted  to  watch  the  bird  visitors,  with  their 
animated  ways  and  eagerly  sparkling  eyes.  Among 
them  will  almost  surely  be  our  friend  "Downy,"  and 
sometimes  "Hairy,"  too.  They  are  such  nervous, 
restless,  ceaselessly  active  little  bodies,  the  very  embodi- 
ment of  perpetual  motion — especially  Hairy.  Yes,  I 
see  that  I  can  get  along  nicely  by  describing  Downy, 
and  adding  that  Hairy  is  even  more  so.  Really  it  seems 
as  though  two  Downies  had  been  concentrated  in 
making  one  Hairy.  It  is  always  especially  Hairy! 
Hairy's  nervous  "specialty,"  though,  makes  him  the 
shier  of  the  two,  as  might  be  expected. 

98 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

This  lunch  counter  arrangement  offers  a  fine  chance 
to  secure  photographs  of  our  visitors.  The  camera 
does  not  alarm  them  much,  except  Hairy! — so  we  may 
set  it  up  on  the  tripod,  focus  on  the  food,  and,  with  all 
in  readiness  for  an  instantaneous  exposure,  lay  the  line 
of  thread  in  through  the  keyhole  or  under  the  window, 
and  watch  for  a  good  shot.  When  the  bird  is  just 
right,  pull  the  thread.  This  seems  easy,  and  yet  it  is 
surprising  how  many  plates  one  will  spoil.  The  bird 
is  so  seldom  still  that  it  is  very  apt  indeed  to  move  just 
as  the  shutter  opens  and  give  a  blurred  image.  The 
only  way  is  to  keep  trying,  and  some  of  the  pictures 
will  be  good.  Of  course  one  should  do  this  only  on  a 
bright  day,  and  use  the  fastest  kind  of  plate,  with  lens 
wide  open  and  the  quickest  possible  exposure. 

One  day  I  got  a  particularly  interesting  picture  of  a 
Downy  Woodpecker.  A  female  bird  was  feeding  on 
some  suet  nailed  under  a  stub.  The  camera  was  all 
ready,  and  I  was  about  to  pull  the  thread  when  I  noticed 
a  cat  sneaking  along  the  path,  hoping  to  spring  on  the 
bird.  No  sooner  did  Downy  espy  the  great  enemy 
than  she  set  up  an  excited  and  angry  chirping,  and  at 
the  same  time  erected  the  feathers  on  the  back  of  her 
head  and  neck  to  a  sharp  pointed  crest.  I  pulled,  and 
had  her  in  all  her  glory.  Few  people,  probably,  realize 
that  Woodpeckers  can  become  crested,  even  the  kinds 
which,  unlike  the  Pileated,  have  no  topknot. 

There  was  little  trouble,  comparatively,  in  photo- 
graphing Downy,  but  Hairy  was  quite  another  proposi- 

99 


KNIGHTS    OF    THE    CHISEL 

tion.  A  fine  male  of  his  persuasion  was  visiting  me 
daily,  but  he  was  so  shy  and  nervous.  Before  coming 
to  eat  he  would  jerk  and  dodge,  back  and  forth,  till  it 
seemed  that  he  would  never  come  to  eat  after  all. 
However,  in  time  he  would  make  up  his  mind,  and  dart 
down  to  the.  piazza  to  strike  the  suet  telling  knockout 
blows;  with  an  excited  chirp  now  and  then,  he  would 
quickly  chisel  off  all  he  wanted  and  dart  away. 

I  wasted  so  much  time  trying  to  pull  the  thread  on 
him  and  get  even  a  single  picture  for  this  book,  that 
Ned  thought  that  he  would  try  to  beat  me.  So  he 
propped  up  a  stick  out  in  the  snow  with  a  piece  of  suet 
on  top,  focused  the  camera  on  it,  and  sat  for  hours  at  a 
window,  reading  and  watching,  ready  to  pull  the  thread. 
Now  and  then  the  bird  appeared,  but  went  off,  afraid  of 
the  camera.  At  last,  just  for  an  instant,  he  alighted 
on  the  stick,  under  the  meat,  and  Ned  "got"  him,  as 
nice  as  you  please.  I  fear  that  it  will  be  a  long  time 
before  Ned  stops  crowing  about  how  he  beat  me  photo- 
graphing Hairy  Woodpeckers. 


100 


CHAPTER  VII 

BIRDS   WITH    A    HANDICAP 

(Goatsuckers  and  Hummers) 

NED  thinks  he  is  going  to  stick  me  this  morning. 
He  wants  to  know  why  the  order  of  birds  which 
includes  the  goatsuckers,  hummers  and  swifts 
is  called  "Macrochires,"  which  the  book  says  means 
long-handed,  that  is,  long-winged,  and  the  gulls  are 
called  "Longipennes,"  which  means  long-winged,  too. 
I  told  him  the  last  was  derived  from  the  Latin  and 
the  other  from  the  Greek  language.  But  this  did  not 
satisfy  him.  He  thinks  the  gulls  are  well  named,  but 
not  the  others,  because  among  the  land  birds  the  swal- 
lows are  long-winged,  too,  and  the  birds  of  prey,  and 
that  "small-footed"  would  have  been  a  better  name, 
because  all  these  species  have  small,  weak  legs  and  feet. 
The  goatsuckers  perch  along  a  branch  because  their 
feet  are  too  weak  to  clasp  it  easily,  and  the  swifts  can 
only  cling,  while  the  hummers,  though  they  can  perch, 
have  frail  enough  little  "hands."  I  had  to  admit  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  reason  in  what  he  said  and 
told  him  I  hoped  that  some  day,  when  he  had  become 
a  great  scientist,  he  would  have  some  things  changed. 
Meanwhile,  now,  since  we  are  getting  up  a  book  of  our 

101 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

own,  we  are  going  to  call  things  whatever  we  like,  so 
we  shall  speak  of  this  order  as  the  "handicapped"  birds, 
because  their  weak  hands  seem  so  unfitted  for  the 
world's  work.  Were  it  not  for  their  strong  wings,  the 
handicap  would  be  too  much  for  them. 

For  convenience  sake  only,  I  shall  speak  of  the  swifts 
in  the  chapter  with  the  swallows,  and  go  on  now  to  these 
most  singular  of  our  birds,  the  Whippoorwill  and  the 
Nighthawk.  The  ancients  called  birds  of  this  order 
"goatsuckers,"  from  the  absurd  superstition  that  they 
sucked  the  milk  from  goats  with  their  large  mouths,  as 
vampire  bats  have  been  said  to  do.  Slander  is  hard  to 
down,  and  the  bad  name  has  stuck  to  them  ever  since. 

"Are  the  Whippoorwill  and  Nighthawk  the  same 
birds?"  This  is  a  question  which  people  ask  me  over 
and  over  again.  Well,  I  should  say  not!  They  re- 
semble each  other  in  form  and  size,  and  are  closely 
related  species,  belonging  to  the  same  family  group, 
but  their  habits  are  very  different.  The  difference  is 
about  like  that  between  the  Song  and  Chipping  Spar- 
rows, the  Wood  Thrush  and  the  Veery  among  thrushes, 
or  the  Oven-bird  and  the  Redstart  among  warblers. 
The  Whippoorwill  is  probably  partly  to  blame  for  this 
confusion,  for  it  will  seldom  give  people  a  good  look  at 
it,  coming  out  of  its  retreat  in  the  woods  only  after  dusk. 
It  looks  like  the  Nighthawk  in  form,  as  it  flies,  so  peo- 
ple imagine  that  the  familiar  "whip-poor-will"  is  the 
Nighthawk's  evening  song  and  use  both  names  as  for 
the  same  bird. 

102 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

Some  of  Ned's  boy  friends  have  tried  very  hard  to 
"get"  the  Whippoorwill,  that  is,  to  get  a  good  look  at  it. 
When  it  begins  its  song  in  the  evening,  they  follow  the 
sound  and  try  to  creep  up  close  to  the  bird.  But  it  is 
so  dark  that  the  sly  rascal  usually  flits  away  some  dis- 
tance and  begins  again  its  tantalizing  call.  One  boy 
had  the  good  luck  one  night  to  trace  the  bird  to  a  rock 
in  an  open  field  near  the  edge  of  the  woods.  It  was 
moonlight,  and  he  stole  up  near  enough  to  see  it  very 
plainly.  Ned  once  got  a  pretty  good  view  of  a  Whip- 
poorwill on  the  top  of  a  rail  fence,  and  another  night 
he  and  I  watched  for  quite  a  while  as  it  perched  length- 
wise on  the  ridge  pole  of  a  low  roof.  What  a  racket  it 
was  making!  The  people  in  the  house  came  out  to  see 
what  was  up. 

But  see  now  what  great  differences  there  are  between 
the  Whippoorwill  and  the  Nighthawk.  The  Whip- 
poorwill is  brown,  the  Nighthawk  gray,  with  a  white 
bar  on  its  wings.  The  Nighthawk  is  the  long-winged 
bird  seen  flying  about  well  up  in  the  air  in  the  daytime, 
especially  during  the  afternoon,  uttering  a  peculiar 
squeak,  and  then  diving  swiftly  almost  to  the  earth, 
making  a  loud  booming  sound  as  it  suddenly  checks 
its  flight  and  saves  itself  from  having  its  brains  dashed 
out.  The  Whippoorwill,  on  the  other  hand,  only  flies 
about  at  dusk  and  after,  not  rising  high  up,  but  gliding 
from  perch  to  perch  in  short  sallies,  and  then,  as  it 
perches,  it  utters  the  well-known  cry  which  is  inter- 
preted— " whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will."  The  Whip- 

103 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

poorwill  stays  during  the  day  in  the  woods  and  lays 
two  white  eggs  sparsely  marked  with  faint  lilac  on  the 
dead  leaves  on  the  ground  among  the  woodland  shades ; 
the  Nighthawk,  when  not  flying  about,  suns  itself  during 
the  day  upon  a  rock  or  dusty  place  out  in  a  field  or 
pasture,  and  lays  its  two  darkly-marked  eggs  on  or 
beside  a  low  flat  rock  which  just  crops  out  from  the 
ground  in  an  open  lot.  In  cities  people  sometimes  find 
Nighthawks'  eggs  on  the  flat  tar  and  gravel  roofs  of 
blocks  of  houses. 

The  entire  food  of  both  these  birds  consists  of  insects, 
and  they  are  exceedingly  useful.  In  the  south  the 
Nighthawk  is  popularly  known  as  "Bull-bat,"  and  is 
often  called  familiarly  simply  "Bat."  It  is  most  un- 
fortunate that  there,  in  some  quarters,  the  custom  has 
arisen  of  shooting  Nighthawks  as  game.  They  eat 
enormous  quantities  of  mosquitoes,  gnats  and  flies,  also 
potato  bugs,  ants,  and  a  variety  of  noxious  insects,  and 
the  same  is  true  of  the  Whippoorwill.  Everything 
possible  ought  to  be  done  to  protect  these  birds.  Pos- 
sibly the  name  Nighthawk  is  responsible  for  the  shooting 
of  this  species  by  ignorant  persons  who  imagine  that, 
as  they  are  "hawks,"  they  must  kill  chickens.  But 
the  poor  bird  is  no  hawk  at  all,  rather  more  like  a  large 
swallow,  and  it  is  decidedly  a  day  bird,  so  it  badly 
needs  a  new  name. 

The  most  likely  way  of  obtaining  photographs  of 
birds  of  this  class  is  by  first  finding  their  nests.  If  we 
should  happen  upon  them  in  their  ordinary  haunts 

104 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

while  at  rest  in  the  hot  part  of  the  day,  we  might  be 
allowed  to  steal  up  fairly  near  and  be  allowed  time  for 
a  snapshot.  But  such  good  fortune  is  rare  and  at  best 
we  should  not  be  able  to  approach  very  near.  But 
when  the  nest  is  found,  particularly  when  incubation  is 
well  under  way,  the  sitting  bird  is  often  very  tame  and 
the  careful  worker  can  be  reasonably  sure  of  success. 

To  speak  first  of  the  Whippoorwill,  the  eggs  are 
usually  laid,  in  northern  or  middle  districts,  about  the 
last  of  May  or  the  first  week  in  June.  The  best  place 
to  look  is  in  second  growth  woods,  where  there  is  a 
moderate  amount  of  undergrowth,  usually  near  an 
opening,  and  particularly  where  there  is  a  pile  of  dry 
brush  or  a  fallen  tree.  The  bird  makes  no  nest,  but 
merely  selects  a  spot  on  the  dead  leaves  on  the  ground, 
in  the  shade,  where  her  two  handsome  eggs  are  de- 
posited. The  way  I  find  a  nest  is  to  notice  in  the 
evenings  where  Whippoorwills  first  begin  to  call  in  the 
woods,  and  then  by  day  tramp  back  and  forth,  round 
and  round,  in  that  territory,  beating  the  bushes  with  a 
stick.  The  brown  mother  sits  very  closely,  and  her 
colors  and  markings  blend  so  wonderfully  with  the 
surroundings  that  there  is  not  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
of  seeing  her  thus.  However,  if  we  walk  within  a  few 
feet  of  her  she  will  fly  up  and  away,  and  then  the  white 
eggs  are  conspicuous  enough. 

A  few  years  ago  there  was  a  patch  of  woods  and 
shrubbery,  a  sort  of  island  surrounded  by  open  fields, 
in  which  a  pair  of  Whippoorwills  nested  each  season. 

105 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

I  first  discovered  the  nest  by  accident.  Walking 
through  the  woods  I  passed  near  a  pile  of  brush,  when 
up  flew  a  long-winged  brown  bird  from  a  shaded  spot 
beside  a  clump  of  small  saplings  and  flitted  off  with 
silent  flight  like  a  bat.  There  were  her  two  eggs — on 
the  seventh  of  June — the  first  Whippoorwill's  eggs  I 
had  ever  found.  I  secured  a  fine  picture  of  her  by 
placing  the  camera  close  to  the  nest,  covered  with 
leaves,  and  then,  with  a  thread  attached,  withdrawing 
for  an  hour  to  let  the  bird  come  back,  when  I  pulled  the 
thread  for  an  exposure  of  one  second.  The  male  bird, 
I  found,  was  accustomed  to  roost  lengthwise  along  the 
trunk  of  a  fallen  sapling,  where  I  could  almost  always 
find  him  in  daytime,  but  he  would  not  let  me  come 
very  near.  Each  year  after  that,  at  about  the  same 
time,  I  would  visit  these  woods  and  flush  the  female 
from  her  eggs,  not  in  the  same  spot,  but  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  it.  The  male  always  found  his  old 
log  again,  until  one  day  I  failed  to  start  him,  and 
scattered  brown  feathers  showed  that  some  hawk  or 
prowling  "varmint"  had  probably  made  a  meal  of  him. 
Next  winter  the  grove  was  cut  off  and  no  more  Whip- 
poorwills  came  there. 

In  the  cold,  backward  spring  of  1907,  on  the  twenty- 
sixth  of  June,  I  was  walking  with  a  friend  in  a  grove 
near  his  home,  when  I  heard  a  Scarlet  Tanager  chirping 
excitedly,  and  also  a  Vireo.  We  altered  our  course  and 
went  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  The  disturber  proved 
to  be  a  marauding  jay  skulking  in  the  foliage,  and  the 

106 


Whippoonvill  on  nest.     "Within  two  or  three  feet 


Young  Whippoorwills  in  nest,  heads  apart.     "Two  queer  little  chicks"  (p.  108). 


Nighthawk.     "Blends  with  the  gray  of  the     .     .     .     rock"  (p.  109). 


Young  Nighthawks.     "Singular  little  striped  fellows"  (p.  110). 


BIRDS   WITH   A   HANDICAP 

smaller  birds  were  trying  to  drive  it  off.  As  we  stood 
in  a  little  open  place  in  the  woods,  it  chanced  that  I  was 
within  three  feet  of  a  Whippoorwill  on  its  nest.  I 
should  never  in  the  world  have  seen  it  even  then,  had 
not  the  bird  become  uneasy  over  our  talking  and 
flushed.  There  were  the  two  eggs,  unusually  elongated 
and  very  beautifully  marked,  evidently  freshly  laid. 

A  heavy  rain  storm  was  just  beginning,  so  I  had  to 
postpone  my  photographing,  and  was  not  able  to  return 
till  the  next  week.  The  bird  was  on  the  nest,  but  so 
still  and  inconspicuous  that  for  the  life  of  me  I  could 
not  see  where  she  was,  until  in  my  blundering  I  started 
her  off.  As  on  the  previous  occasion,  I  set  the  camera 
on  a  pile  of  dead  leaves,  on  a  very  short  tripod.  It  was 
a  couple  of  hours  before  she  was  back  on  the  nest,  and 
then  I  pulled  the  thread,  first  to  open  the  shutter,  and 
ten  seconds  later  to  close  it.  I  could  see  that  she  re- 
mained motionless.  Then  I  crept  up  silently  on  hands 
and  knees  to  change  the  plate  behind  the  camera, 
thinking  that  possibly  she  might  not  start.  She  was 
now  tamer  than  I  had  dared  to  hope.  Not  only  did 
she  let  me  change  the  plate  and  take  her  again,  but  she 
allowed  me  to  move  the  camera  nearer,  within  two  or 
three  feet,  and  take  long-timed  exposures  for  fine  detail, 
with  the  lens  stopped  down  to  a  very  small  opening. 
The  resulting  pictures  were  all  that  I  could  possibly 
desire.  I  visited  her  again  from  time  to  time  with  Ned. 
He  took  some  fine  pictures  all  by  himself,  as  good  as 
mine,  and  I  got  a  few  more.  Now  we  could  walk 

107 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

right  up  boldly  and  plant  the  camera  within  two  feet 
of  her  without  alarming  her.  Once  I  was  there  after 
sundown.  Having  taken  a  picture  in  the  soft  light,  I 
thought  I  would  see  if  she  would  let  me  touch  her,  but 
she  gave  a  little  hop  and  flutter  and  perched  upon  a 
fallen  branch  close  by  the  nest.  There  she  sat  motion- 
less, not  along  the  limb,  as  ordinarily,  but  almost,  if 
not  quite,  directly  across  it.  Carefully  I  turned  the 
camera  toward  her,  after  hurriedly  screwing  on  my  lens 
of  longest  focus,  and  moving  the  tripod  slowly  a  little 
nearer.  It  was  so  dark  that  I  could  hardly  see  to  focus, 
and  it  required  quite  a  long  exposure.  I  made  two, 
the  longest  and  best — as  it  proved — taking  two  whole 
minutes,  yet  the  bird  never  winked  or  moved,  giving  me 
a  fine  picture  of  an  unusual  sort. 

In  the  morning  of  the  thirteenth  of  July,  seventeen 
days  after  I  first  found  the  nest,  my  friend  saw  a  Whip- 
poorwilPs  eggshell  lying  in  the  road,  two  gunshots  from 
the  nest,  so  he  surmised  that  the  eggs  I  was  watching 
had  just  hatched.  Two  days  later  I  found  the  mother 
brooding  two  queer  little  chicks  covered  with  yellowish 
down,  right  in  the  hollow  where  the  eggs  had  been. 
She  was  reluctant  to  leave  them,  and  when  she  did 
they  scurried  away  a  foot  or  two,  and  squatted  in  the 
leaves.  I  photographed  them  at  once,  for  I  knew  that 
they  were  liable  any  day  to  scramble  off,  as  one  spot  to 
them  is  as  good  as  another.  It  was  well  that  I  did  so, 
for  when  I  came  again,  the  next  week,  they  had  dis- 
appeared. Sometimes,  it  is  said,  the  mother  removes 

108 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

the  young,  or  even  the  eggs,  in  her  mouth  to  a  place  of 
safety  when  they  have  been  intruded  upon. 

The  Nighthawk,  like  the  Whippoorwill,  is  very 
tenacious  of  its  nesting  location.  Year  after  year  the 
pair  will  resort  to  the  same  identical  low  flat  rock  in 
the  old  pasture  or  hay  field,  or  to  another  close  by. 
The  eggs  are  laid  at  about  the  same  time  as  the  Whip- 
poorwills*.  It  is  often  fearfully  hot  on  the  unshielded 
rock,  out  in  the  glare  of  the  summer  sun,  but  the  bird 
sticks  bravely  to  her  task  and  seems  to  know  no  such 
thing  as  sunstroke. 

Just  as  the  Whippoorwill  blends  with  the  brown  of 
the  dead  leaves,  so  does  the  Nighthawk  with  the  gray 
of  the  weather-beaten  rock.  Not  long  ago  I  conducted 
a  party  of  ladies,  members  of  a  bird  club,  to  inspect  a 
Nighthawk  on  her  nest.  There  were  ten  of  them,  and 
in  extended  line  we  approached  the  spot,  a  low  flat 
rock  just  projecting  from  the  ground,  in  a  hay  field. 
When  we  were  perhaps  twenty  feet  away,  we  stopped, 
and  I  pointed  to  the  motionless  bird.  Ten  pairs  of 
field  glasses  were  leveled  at  the  poor,  modest  creature. 
This  aggregation  must  have  looked  about  as  formidable 
to  her  as  a  company  of  soldiers  aiming  their  rifles  would 
have  done  to  us.  She  was  relying,  though,  on  her  pro- 
tective coloration,  and,  indeed,  not  one  of  the  enthusiasts 
was  able  at  first  to  make  her  out.  At  last,  one  by  one, 
each  with  a  squeal  of  delight,  made  the  great  discovery. 
They  fairly  stared  her  out  of  countenance,  for,  as  we 
drew  a  little  nearer,  she  fluttered  off,  dragging  her  wings 

109 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

over  the  grass  as  though  badly  wounded,  to  tempt  us 
to  follow  her. 

Though  I  knew  of  various  Nighthawk  locations,  and 
found  their  eggs  from  year  to  year,  this  bird  was  es- 
pecially tame,  and  was  my  preferred  stalking-horse  for 
photographs.  I  first  snapped  her  in  1900,  using  a 
thread,  from  a  distance.  Every  season  she  set  up 
business  at  the  old  stand,  and  in  1907  I  found  her — late, 
like  the  Whippoorwill — on  the  first  day  of  July  with  two 
fresh  eggs.  By  creeping  up  very  carefully  and  making 
every  movement  slowly,  I  was  able  to  place  the  camera, 
on  the  tripod,  within  less  than  a  yard  of  her,  and  took 
as  many  pictures  as  I  needed,  without  having  to  retire 
and  wait.  Ned  tried  to  "get"  her  that  day  with  the 
camera,  but  he  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  and  scared 
her  off;  but  later  he  snapped  her  with  the  "Reflex," 
as  she  sat  on  a  rock. 

On  July  sixteenth  the  eggs  were  evidently  about  to 
hatch,  and  the  Nighthawk  was  tamer  than  I  had  ever 
known  one  to  become.  Not  only  could  I  photograph 
her,  but  I  poked  her  with  a  short  stick  and  made  her 
stand  up  and  raise  her  wings  beside  the  eggs  without 
flying.  On  the  nineteenth  I  found  the  young  hatched, 
the  eggshells  still  lying  near  by  on  the  rock.  It  was  well 
that  I  photographed  the  singular  little  striped  fellows 
when  I  did,  for  next  day  the  field  was  mowed.  The 
men  put  the  little  birds  on  a  higher  rock  so  that  they 
might  not  be  injured,  but  a  few  days  later,  when  I  came, 
they  had  disappeared.  Either  the  old  birds  moved 

110 


Nighthawk  on  eggs,  alarmed. 


'My  preferred  stalking-horse  for  photographs 
(p.  110). 


Nighthawk  by  her  eggs.     "Made  her  raise  her  wings"  (p.  110). 


Humming  Bird  incubating.     "Would  quickly  return  to  her  duty"  (p.  11(5). 


Hummer  "in  the  midst,  of  the  feeding  comedy"  (p.  120). 


BIRDS   WITH   A   HANDICAP 

them,  or  else  some  prowling  varmint  got  them,  which 
last  we  trust  did  not  occur. 

It  seemed  but  a  few  days  till  the  last  of  August,  when 
the  Nighthawks  began  to  appear  in  straggling  flocks, 
flying  southward  in  a  leisurely  manner,  catching  insects 
as  they  went.  On  the  eighth  of  September  the  sky 
for  hours  was  dotted  with  them  in  every  direction.  It 
was  reassuring  to  any  bird  lover  to  see  so  many,  proving 
that  there  must  yet  be  some  places  where  they  are 
abundant.  But  there  came  with  it  also  a  minor  cadence, 
a  thought  as  of  sere  and  yellow  autumn.  "Ned,"  I 
said  to  him,  "those  migrants  are  telling  us  that  we  shall 
photograph  no  more  nesting  Nighthawks  this  year." 

Though  the  art  museums  of  Europe  may  have  some 
treasures  of  which  America  cannot  boast,  our  continent 
has  the  distinction  of  a  monopoly  of  the  world's  supply 
of  Hummingbirds,  the  gems  of  all  the  feathered  crea- 
tion. Of  these  there  are  said  to  be  some  four  hundred 
species — the  four  hundred  we  may  call  them! — nearly 
all  of  which  are  peculiar  to  the  tropical  regions.  Only 
eighteen  cross  the  borders  of  the  United  States  from 
Mexico,  and  appear  only  in  our  southwestern  States, 
except  one,  our  familiar  little  "Ruby-throat,"  which  is 
found  throughout  the  United  States  and  up  as  far  north 
as  Labrador.  Nothing  in  bird  life  is  comparable  with 
these  wonderful  tiny  creatures.  They  are  literally  gems, 
in  that  their  feathers  flash  brilliant,  wonderful  hues 
which  vary  as  in  the  kaleidoscope  at  every  angle  of 

111 


BIRDS   WITH   A   HANDICAP 

vision.  Their  motions  are  too  rapid  for  the  eye  clearly 
to  follow.  Though  they  have  no  song,  and  emit  only 
an  insect-like  chirp  or  squeak,  the  hummer,  as  a  writer 
has  prettily  said,  "needs  none.  Its  beauty  gives  it  dis- 
tinction, and  its  wings  make  music." 

Nearly  everyone  knows  the  little  hummer — the 
Ruby-throated  Hummingbird,  the  books  call  it — which 
darts  about  in  the  garden  from  flower  to  flower.  Its 
tiny  wings  move  so  rapidly  that  they  appear  only  as  a 
blur,  and  produce  the  humming  sound  from  which  the 
bird  takes  its  name.  Almost  fearless  of  man,  it  hovers 
by  the  blossom  close  beside  us,  like  some  large  insect. 
Though  it  measures  a  trifle  over  three  inches  long, 
there  are  insects  which  can  easily  be  mistaken  for  it. 
A  certain  large  moth  has  often  deceived  me  for  the 
moment;  but  the  fact  that  it  comes  in  the  dusk,  when 
the  little  hummer  has  gone  to  bed,  may  guard  one 
against  being  deceived. 

The  popular  idea  is  that  the  hummer  lives  only  on 
honey  gathered  from  flowers.  This  is  a  mistake.  The 
bird  does  secure  some  honey,  but  its  food  consists 
mainly  of  the  small  insects  which  frequent  the  flowers. 
Some  of  these  insects  are  injurious  to  the  blossom  and 
the  tiny  bird  fulfills  a  useful  function  in  destroying  them. 
That  the  hummer  is  insectivorous  is  also  shown  by  its 
habit  of  catching  tiny  insects  on  the  wing,  which  is 
occasionally  observed. 

So  familiar  are  Hummingbirds  toward  man  that  they 
will  readily  enter  open  windows  of  houses  if  they  see 

112 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

flowers  within.  I  have  even  read  of  their  visiting  the 
artificial  flowers  on  a  lady's  hat  when  she  was  walking 
out,  and  other  writers  speak  of  their  taking  sugar  from 
between  a  person's  lips.  In  a  room  they  become  con- 
fused, and,  being  so  frail,  are  apt  to  injure  themselves 
by  striking  against  objects.  More  than  once  I  or  mem- 
bers of  my  family  have  caught  the  frightened  little 
waifs  for  their  good,  and  released  them  in  the  open  air. 
It  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  keep  them  in  captivity,  unless, 
possibly,  it  were  in  a  greenhouse  where  there  were 
plenty  of  flowers,  for  no  artificial  food  has  ever  been 
found  which  will  nourish  them.  Yet  even  there  they 
would  probably  kill  themselves  by  flying  against  the 
glass. 

We  may  expect  the  little  hummer  in  the  Middle 
States  or  New  England  early  in  May  each  year.  They 
seem  to  come  paired  and  resort  each  time  to  the  familiar 
hunting  grounds.  At  least  we  are  apt  to  see  Humming- 
birds in  the  same  places  year  after  year.  By  early  June 
each  pair  has  its  dainty  nest  and  two  tiny  white  eggs 
hardly  larger  than  peas.  A  favorite  site  for  the  nest  is 
an  old  lichen-grown  apple  tree  in  an  orchard,  generally 
not  high  up.  But  often  they  will  choose  some  shade 
tree,  like  a  maple,  in  the  garden  or  along  the  street. 
Sometimes  it  is  on  a  tree  in  a  swamp  or  in  deep  woods. 

It  was  in  the  latter  situation  that  I  found  my  first 

occupied  nest  of  the  hummer,  though,  when  a  small 

boy,  I  remember  discovering  the  home  of  a  pair  that 

frequented  our  garden,  saddled  to  the  lower  limb  of  a 

*  113 


BIRDS   WITH   A   HANDICAP 

larch  tree  close  by  the  house,  but  only  after  the  birds 
had  left  it.  It  was  one  Memorial  Day,  and  with  a 
friend  I  was  looking  for  birds  in  some  tall  white  pine 
woods.  My  attention  was  attracted  by  a  Veery,  or 
Wilson's  Thrush,  which  flew  up  from  the  ground  into 
a  pine.  Just  as  it  alighted  it  was  attacked  in  the  most 
violent  manner  by  a  tiny  bird,  which  was  so  quick  in 
its  motions  that  I  could  hardly  tell  what  was  going  on. 
The  thrush,  though  a  far  larger  bird,  unable  to  rival 
such  velocity  and  deftness  of  attack,  was  driven  off  in  a 
hurry.  Naturally  we  assumed  that  there  was  a  nest 
near,  and  sure  enough,  there  it  was,  about  two-thirds 
way  out  on  one  of  the  lower  branches  of  the  pine,  some 
fifteen  feet  up,  not  in  a  crotch,  but  built  on  to  the 
branch  itself,  as  though  it  were  a  knot  or  excrescence  of 
the  same.  While  we  examined  it  the  female  buzzed 
and  darted  about  our  heads  like  an  angry  bee.  As  for 
the  male,  he  did  not  put  in  his  appearance,  and  I  have 
reason  to  fear  that  he  is  a  shirk.  Since  then  I  have 
found  various  nests,  but  I  do  not  in  any  case  recall 
seeing  the  male  about  when  his  wife  was  in  distress 
over  the  intrusion.  Some  writers  state  that  he  leaves 
to  her  all  the  care  of  eggs  and  young.  Formerly  he  was 
very  ardent  in  his  protestations  of  affection  and  devo- 
tion, but  now,  as  the  flowers  expand  in  greater  profusion, 
he  finds  them  more  interesting  than  the  prosaic  duties 
of  home. 

This  home,  howbeit,  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
and  artistic  creations  of  all  bird  architecture.     It  is  a 

114 


BIRDS    WITH    A   HANDICAP 

tiny,  delicate  cup,  made  of  the  softest  plant  down,  sad- 
dled upon  some  rather  slender  branch,  so  deftly  that  it 
seems  a  part  thereof.  Delicate  cobweb  threads  are 
used  to  compact  and  secure  the  material,  and  likewise 
to  coat  the  exterior  with  the  gray-green  lichens  so  gen- 
erally found  upon  trees.  This  makes  it  so  assimilate 
with  the  surroundings  that  it  is  a  very  difficult  object 
to  discover.  And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.  A  gentleman 
had  told  me  that,  if  I  would  call  upon  him,  he  would 
show  me  an  occupied  nest  of  a  Hummingbird  in  his 
orchard.  When  I  came  he  was  out  of  town,  but  I 
thought  I  would  see  if  I  could  not  find  the  nest  myself. 
So  I  made  inspection  from  tree  to  tree,  and  presently 
the  female  hummer  began  to  fly  about  me  anxiously. 
We  played  a  game  of  hot  and  cold  until  it  became 
evident  that  the  nest  must  be  in  a  certain  low  apple  tree 
which  had  many  dead,  lichen-covered  branches.  Some 
of  these  came  down  nearly  to  the  ground,  and  for  quite 
a  while  I  stood  by  the  tree,  running  my  eyes  along  each 
branch  in  order,  trying  to  make  out  the  nest,  while  the 
female  kept  darting  frantically  at  my  head.  It  must 
have  been  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  I  dis- 
covered that  I  was  standing  almost  touching  the  nest 
with  my  hands,  having  been  looking  right  over  it  all 
the  time.  It  contained  two  fresh  eggs,  this  being  in 
the  early  part  of  June.  The  branch  upon  which  it  was 
built  was  completely  overgrown  with  lichens,  and  the 
nest,  covered  with  them  too,  was  wonderfully  disguised, 
though  there  were  no  leaves  to  hide  it. 

115 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

Another  nest  I  found  in  a  similar  fashion,  but  much 
more  easily.  I  was  in  a  patch  of  swampy  thicket  of 
low  trees  and  bushes  adjoining  a  meadow.  A  hummer 
began  to  dart  about,  so  I  looked  for  the  nest  and  almost 
at  once  saw  it,  well  out  on  a  low  branch  of  a  maple. 
There  were  no  lichens  on  this  green  branch,  though  they 
had  been  plastered  on  the  nest,  as  usual,  so  that  it  was 
more  conspicuous  than  in  the  other  case.  This  nest 
also  had  two  eggs. 

These  hatch  in  less  than  two  weeks,  probably  ten  to 
twelve  days,  and  in  two  weeks  more  the  young  have 
grown  up  and  gone.  There  is  easily  time,  then,  for  a 
second  brood  to  mature  before  the  nights  grow  cool,  and 
the  hummers  often  take  advantage  of  this  fact.  One 
day  in  July  a  little  girl  came  running  in  to  tell  us  that 
she  had  found  a  hummer's  nest  in  the  orchard  back 
of  our  home.  It  was  placed  on  a  low  branch,  about 
breast  high  from  the  ground,  and  contained  but  one 
egg.  The  little  mother  darted  about,  alighting  here 
and  there  on  slender  twigs  as  I  examined  the  nest. 
When  I  withdrew  a  few  yards  she  would  quickly  return 
to  her  duty.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  her  enter 
the  nest.  She  did  not  perch  upon  the  edge,  but  hovered 
over  it,  and,  with  wings  speeding  like  the  wheel  of  a 
dynamo,  would  then  drop  right  into  her  little  cup  just 
as  a  piece  of  thistle-down  might  have  settled  upon  it, 
lightly  and  airily,  making  one  of  the  prettiest  bird  sights 
that  I  have  ever  seen. 

Evidently  it  was  a  fine  chance  to  photograph,  not 
116 


BIRDS    WITH    A   HANDICAP 

only  the  nest,  but  the  bird  upon  it  as  well.  This  was  a 
decade  ago,  when  I  was  just  beginning  to  photograph 
wild  birds,  and  I  did  not  utilize  the  opportunity  as  fully 
as  I  should  have  done  later.  However,  I  set  up  the 
camera  upon  the  tripod,  very  close  to  the  nest,  and, 
attaching  the  thread  to  the  shutter,  sat  down  under  the 
next  tree  to  await  my  opportunity.  The  hummer 
returned  to  the  nest  at  once,  paying  no  heed  to  the 
instrument.  Unfortunately  the  foliage  obscured  the 
light,  and  at  that  time  I  was  under  the  false  impression 
that  a  slow  plate  would  give  the  best  results,  with  most 
detail,  in  this  sort  of  work.  This  necessitated  a  timed 
exposure,  and  the  bird  was  almost  sure  to  turn  her 
head  when  the  shutter  opened.  Thus  I  accumulated  a 
series  of  pictures  of  a  double-headed  hummer,  a  species 
which  is  not  recognized  by  scientists.  One  negative, 
from  a  snapshot,  was  sharp  but  very  faint.  Yet  there 
is  hope  even  thus  of  a  valuable  exposure,  if  only  there 
be  detail,  however  weak.  The  best  thing  to  do  is  to 
print  or  enlarge  on  the  most  contrasty  grade  of  glossy 
lamplight  paper,  which  will  give  a  strong,  plucky  print. 
If  it  is  too  black,  reduce  it  to  the  proper  degree  with  red 
prussiate  of  potassium  reducer,  as  one  would  a  plate, 
giving  local  reduction  where  it  is  needed.  Then  photo- 
graph the  print  in  a  way  not  to  show  the  grain  of  the 
paper,  and  the  resulting  negative,  as  compared  with  the 
original,  will  prove  a  surprise  and  a  delight.  A  rare 
and  valuable  picture  is  well  worth  this  trouble,  and  I 
have  saved  many  undertimed  snapshots  in  this  way. 

117 


BIRDS   WITH   A   HANDICAP 

In  this  case  there  was  no  opportunity  for  camera  studies 
of  the  young  hummer,  for  the  egg  never  hatched.  The 
faithful  mother  brooded  it  week  after  week  till  she  lost 
heart  and  quit.  Then  I  took  possession  and  blew  the 
egg,  finding  in  it  nothing  but  water. 

The  time  came,  at  length,  when  I  was  to  have  every 
facility  for  this  study  and  when,  with  wider  experience, 
I  could  take  full  advantage  of  it.  It  came  at  a  season 
when  I  had  no  idea  of  any  more  pictures  of  bird  nesting, 
unless  of  the  ever  tardy  Goldfinch — in  mid-August.  A 
road  was  being  cut  through  a  tract  of  woods,  just  back 
from  the  shore  of  a  small  lake.  One  afternoon  they 
cut  down  a  black  birch  tree,  and  the  next  morning, 
when  one  of  the  men  was  cutting  it  up,  he  heard  a 
continued  chirping,  and,  upon  making  investigation, 
found  the  nest  of  a  Hummingbird  out  on  a  slender 
branch  of  the  fallen  tree,  about  twenty-five  feet  up  from 
the  base.  It  was  tipped  over  to  one  side,  yet  in  it  was 
a  young  hummer,  clinging  to  the  soft  lining,  and  on 
the  ground  beneath  it  was  another.  They  were  nearly 
fledged  and  just  about  able  to  fly.  Taking  pity  on  the 
poor  little  things,  the  man  cut  off  the  limb  with  the  nest, 
fixed  it  firmly  between  two  trees  about  five  feet  from 
the  ground,  and  placed  the  little  hummers  upon  it. 
At  first  they  fluttered  out,  and,  indeed,  they  seemed  so 
much  too  large  for  the  tiny  cup  that  it  appeared  almost 
impossible  for  them  both  to  fit  in.  But  what  man 
could  not  do  the  birds  did  themselves,  when  they  got 
good  and  ready.  The  men  on  the  estate  were  much 

118 


BIRDS   WITH   A   HANDICAP 

interested  in  the  tiny  creatures,  and,  fearing  that  they 
were  abandoned  to  starve,  sent  to  me  to  learn  how  to 
feed  them.  Fortunately,  however,  there  was  no  need 
for  clumsy  human  effort,  which  would  have  been 
unavailing.  The  mother  bird  soon  found  them,  as 
she  may  have  done  already,  and  was  busy  feeding 
them  long  before  I  arrived,  which  was  not  until  the 
next  day. 

It  was  a  sight  which  well  repaid  me  for  the  drive  up 
the  steep  mountain  road.  The  nest  itself  was  beautiful, 
but  even  more  so  were  the  tiny  mites  of  bird  life  which 
occupied  it.  The  old  saying  that  there  is  always  room 
for  one  more  may  be  true  in  human  affairs,  but  it  cer- 
tainly would  not  apply  to  this  hummer's  nest.  Both 
birds  were  side  by  side,  facing  the  same  way,  tails  and 
bills  projecting  over  the  rim  of  the  nest.  The  green 
and  gray  of  their  plumage  harmonized  beautifully  with 
the  greenish  lichens  which  adorned  the  nest.  There 
was  a  pretty,  confiding  air  about  the  little  beauties. 
They  did  not  seem  afraid  and  I  could  approach  them 
as  closely  as  I  wished  without  alarming  them. 

As  it  was  already  mid-afternoon,  I  set  about  photo- 
graphing them  at  once.  Presently,  as  I  was  arranging 
the  camera,  I  heard  a  buzzing  sound,  and  the  young 
began  to  chirp  and  struggle  excitedly.  The  mother  had 
come  to  feed  them,  but  she  went  off  when  she  saw  me. 
As  soon  as  I  had  photographed  the  young  in  the  nest, 
I  tied  a  thread  to  the  shutter  and  sat  down  a  few  rods 
away,  hoping  for  a  shot  the  next  time  that  the  mother 

119 


BIRDS    WITH    A   HANDICAP 

came  with  food.  After  some  little  waiting,  I  again 
heard  the  buzzing  sound.  It  was  the  old  bird;  yet  she 
did  not  come  directly  to  the  nest,  but  alighted  well  up 
in  a  tree  near  by.  Then  she  perched  on  a  twig  near  the 
nest,  where  she  stood  quivering  her  wings.  The  young 
were  greatly  excited ;  they  chirped  with  all  their  might, 
quivering  with  eagerness,  and  opened  their  outstretched 
bills,  begging  for  food.  Then  the  mother  hovered  close 
over  them,  but  darted  awray,  not  liking  the  camera. 
After  doing  this  a  few  times,  she  alighted  on  the  branch 
close  to  the  nest,  and  I  sprung  the  shutter.  Its  snap 
frightened  her  away,  and  I  changed  the  plate.  She 
soon  returned,  and  this  time  I  waited  till  she  was  in 
the  midst  of  the  feeding  comedy  before  I  pulled. 

This  is  a  most  remarkable  performance.  The  parent 
alights  on  the  edge  of  the  nest  and  stands  quietly  for  a 
moment,  while  the  young  are  begging  with  all  the 
eloquence  and  earnestness  which  would  betoken  a  mat- 
ter of  life  and  death — as  it  certainly  is  to  them,  poor 
little  things!  Perhaps  she  is  deciding  which  youngster 
to  favor  and  making  inward  preparation  for  what 
naturalists  call  the  act  of  regurgitation.  Selecting  the 
fortunate  hopeful,  she  inserts  her  bill  into  the  widely- 
opened  mouth  and  forces  it  deep  down  into  the  anatomy 
of  the  youngster.  Then  she  rams  it  violently  up  and 
down,  and  with  each  jerk  ejects  from  her  crop  the 
luscious  nectar,  a  mixture  of  partly  digested  insects  and 
honey.  Sometimes  she  would  bring  a  small  whitish 
insect  held  at  the  tip  of  her  bill,  but  when  she  fed  this 

120 


Hummer  and  young.     "  Sometimes  she  would  bring  a  small  whitish  insect"  (p.  120) 


Young  Hummers  in  nest.    "  A  pretty  confiding  air  about  the  little  beauties"  (p.  119). 


Kingbird  on  nest.     "A  most  remarkable  situation"  (p.  125). 


BIRDS    WITH    A   HANDICAP 

to  the  chick,  she  also  continued  the  meal  with  other 
food  from  the  store  below.  Meanwhile  the  other  little 
fellow  would  appear  terribly  disappointed.  Then  the 
shutter  would  click  and  she  would  dart  away,  but  we 
may  believe  that  the  next  time  she  knew  enough  to  feed 
the  other  chick. 

I  had  only  one  more  shot  that  afternoon,  and  then 
the  sun  sank  behind  the  tops  of  the  forest.  In  the 
little  clearing  the  light  only  served  from  eleven  to  four 
o'clock,  and  the  next  day  I  gave  this  space  of  time  to 
the  work.  At  first  I  moved  the  nest  lower  down  and 
secured  even  better  pictures  of  the  young  than  I  had 
done  the  day  before.  Just  as  I  had  made  the  last 
exposure  which  I  desired,  the  old  bird  began  to  buzz 
around.  One  of  the  young  became  very  uneasy.  It 
stirred  about  in  the  nest  and  began  to  whir  its  wings. 
At  first  this  had  no  effect,  but  presently  the  wings  took 
hold  upon  the  air,  and  the  little  one  floated  upward  as 
slowly  and  gently  as  a  feather  and  reached  a  branch  a 
dozen  feet  from  the  ground.  I  tried  to  catch  it  and  put 
it  back,  but  only  made  it  fly  up  higher  into  the  forest, 
and  I  saw  it  no  more,  though  at  times  I  could  hear  its 
little  insect-like  chirp. 

The  nest  was  now  in  shadow,  so  I  moved  it  a  few 
yards  out  into  open  sunlight  and  set  the  camera. 
Presently  the  mother  bird  returned,  but  did  not  see  the 
nest  and  went  off.  Time  dragged  by  and  she  did  not 
return.  Alarmed  and  remorseful  I  put  the  nest  back 
close  to  its  former  location.  The  sun's  rays  came  to  it, 

121 


BIRDS    WITH   A   HANDICAP 

but  not  the  mother.  Meanwhile,  the  poor  chick  chirped 
hungrily  and  made  my  heart  ache  for  it.  Finally,  well 
along  in  the  afternoon,  I  heard  the  familiar  buzz,  and 
when  the  mother  came  and  fed  the  chick  gratitude  and 
delight  welled  up  in  my  soul.  The  old  hummer  now 
returned  at  frequent  intervals  and  I  secured  four  more 
pictures. 

On  this  trip  I  had  the  pleasure  of  the  genial  and  lively 
society  of  Ned.  He  was  greatly  interested  in  the 
various  sights  and  proceedings  and  assisted  me  in  a 
number  of  ways.  But  the  long  wait  for  the  return  of 
the  mother  bird  proved  too  slow  for  his  sanguine 
temperament.  The  lake  shimmered  enticingly  through 
the  woodland  foliage,  and  there  were  fish  in  it  too!  I 
saw  that  Ned  was  casting  wistful  glances  in  that  direc- 
tion and  then  toward  the  nest  and  the  expected  hum- 
mer. He  wanted  to  see  the  feeding  process,  but  he  did 
want  to  "go  fishin'," — like  any  other  boy.  Ned  was 
certainly  a  remarkably  good  ornithologist  for  his  years, 
but  we  would  not  give  the  impression  that  he  was  any 
little  old  man,  or  a  "dry-as-dust."  That  was  not  the 
case,  for  he  is  a  real  live  American  boy  and  reads  a 
publication  of  that  name.  I  knew  just  how  he  felt  and 
told  him  to  go  ahead  and  get  a  mess  for  supper.  That 
was  the  last  I  saw  of  him  for  quite  a  while.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  afternoon  he  came  back  with  a  string  of 
twenty-five  and  he  was  in  time  to  see  the  mother  hummer 
give  her  youngster  some  supper. 

The  following  afternoon  I  drove  my  wife  up  to  see 


BIRDS   WITH   A   HANDICAP 

the  wonder,  if,  indeed,  it  were  not  too  late.  To  our 
joy  the  tiny  bird  was  still  in  the  nest  and  its  mother 
was  so  attentive  that  within  an  hour  I  had  seven  more 
pictures  to  the  good.  Pictures  of  the  little  dear  perching 
on  a  twig,  ready  for  his  exit  into  the  great  wide  world, 
crowned  the  successful  labors.  Next  day  the  workmen 
found  only  the  empty  nest  which  had  served  well  its 
purpose  of  giving  to  the  world  two  more  art  treasures 
of  bird  life. 


12* 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PROFESSIONAL   FLY-CATCHING 

(The  Flycatchers) 

ONE  day  I  had  a  fine  reward  for  giving  a  little  girl 
a  ride  in  my  buggy.  She  was  trudging  to  her 
home  over  a  mile  away,  so,  as  I  overtook  her, 
I  stopped  and  let  her  get  in.  "Have  you  seen  the  bird's 
nest  on  top  of  the  post?"  was  about  the  first  thing  she 
said.  "No,  where  is  it?"  I  inquired.  "Just  on  beyond 
here,"  she  replied,  "I'll  show  you  when  we  come  to  it." 
"There  she  is  on  the  nest!"  presently  exclaimed  the 
child.  Sure  enough,  there  sat  a  bird  flat  on  top  of  one 
of  the  posts  of  the  wire  fence  which  separated  the  high- 
way from  the  railway  track.  As  we  came  nearer  I  saw 
it  was  a  Kingbird.  I  slowed  the  horse  down  to  a  walk, 
and  watched  to  see  how  near  the  bird  would  let  us  come. 
The  country  road  was  very  narrow,  and  when  we  were 
opposite  the  devoted  little  mother  she  was  just  about 
within  arm's  reach,  yet  there  she  sat.  I  stopped  the 
horse,  and  then  she  flew  up  on  the  telegraph  wires  over- 
head, where  she  expressed  noisily  her  disapproval  of 
my  loitering  on  her  premises.  She  did  not  mind,  the 
little  girl  said,  if  people  went  along  past  and  attended  to 


PROFESSIONAL   FLY-CATCHING 

their  own  business,  but  she  had  no  use  for  inquisitive 
persons. 

The  top  of  the  post,  I  found,  had  become  rotted  out 
in  the  center,  forming  a  nice  little  cup.  In  this  the 
birds  had  built  a  very  frail  nest,  nothing  like  the  bulky 
one  they  usually  make,  and  the  female  had  laid  the 
three  usual  handsomely  blotched  eggs.  Besides  being 
so  close  to  vehicles  passing  on  the  road,  on  the  other 
side  the  railway  trains  whizzed  by  within  a  yard  of  her, 
and  altogether  it  was  a  most  remarkable  situation  for 
birds  which  usually  prefer  an  orchard.  Right  across 
the  road  was  an  apple  orchard,  just  the  place  for  them, 
one  would  think,  but  the  queer  selection  they  made 
was  no  one's  affair  but  their  own,  and  I  am  glad  they 
made  the  choice  they  did. 

I  was  afraid  that,  in  such  a  public  place  some  mis- 
creant would  break  up  the  nest  before  I  could  get 
photographs.  Bright  and  early  the  next  morning,  the 
first  day  of  July,  I  drove  down  there,  and  was  delighted 
to  find  everything  all  right.  The  mother  was  incubat- 
ing, but  she  would  not  let  me  walk  up  to  her  with  the 
camera.  So  I  set  it  up  on  the  tripod  reasonably  near 
the  nest,  and  went  off  a  little  way  with  the  thread. 
After  some  hesitating  and  flying  angrily  at  the  camera, 
the  bird  decided  that  it  would  not  hurt  her,  and  settled 
down  upon  her  eggs.  Of  course  I  "got"  her,  and  after 
this  she  would  come  back  almost  at  once,  and  I  soon 
had  as  many  pictures  of  her  as  I  wished,  in  all  sorts  of 
positions.  While  I  was  working,  an  express  train 

125 


PROFESSIONAL   FLY-CATCHING 

went  thundering  by.  The  concussion  of  the  air  almost 
blew  her  off  the  nest,  but  she  hung  on  and  sat  as  firmly 
as  a  cowboy  in  his  saddle.  It  was  usually  the  same 
story,  though  once  she  left  when  a  blundering  freight 
was  half  way  by. 

The  best  fun  came  when  the  young  were  out  and 
about  half  grown.  The  mother,  I  think  it  was,  usually 
stood  beside  them,  sometimes  shielding  them  from  the 
sun,  for  there  was  no  shade  whatever.  There  was  a 
pond  close  by,  and  the  father  spent  most  of  his  time 
watching  the  dragon  flies  darting  about  over  the  water, 
now  and  then  giving  chase  to  one.  They  were  nearly 
a  match  for  him  in  flight.  Sometimes  he  would  fail 
and  go  back  to  his  perch,  but  often  enough  he  captured 
his  prey.  As  he  approached  home  with  his  prize,  he 
always  chattered  a  sort  of  triumphal  march  to  announce 
his  coming.  If  his  mate  was  not  on  the  nest,  she 
hurried  to  it,  both  arriving  at  about  the  same  time. 
The  young  begged  hard  for  food  and  their  father  would 
begin  to  feed  them.  But  mother  yearned  to  assist,  so 
she  would  often  lay  hold  of  the  dragon  fly  and  pull 
away  till  she  had  torn  off  a  piece,  which  she  would  then 
feed  to  the  young.  Meanwhile  the  camera  was  in 
place  and  all  ready,  so  at  the  favorable  instant  at  differ- 
ent stages  of  the  process  I  pulled  the  thread  and  thus 
secured  a  fine  series  of  pictures. 

Of  course  Ned  had  to  come  in  for  his  share  of  the 
fun.  One  day  I  sat  down  in  the  shade  and  watched 
him  while  he  took  my  camera,  set  it  up  by  the  nest, 

126 


Kingbird  scolding.     "Indignant  when  any  one  comes  near  the  nest"  (p.  127). 


The  entire  Kingbird  family.    "The  young  begged  hard  for  food"  (p.  126). 


Phoebe  and  her  new  husband  in  the  garden  (pp.  131-2) 


Phoebe  on  nest.    "Nested  in  my  barn"  (p.  130). 


PROFESSIONAL   FLY-CATCHING 

focused,  put  in  the  plate,  removed  the  slide,  attached 
the  thread,  set  the  shutter,  and  made  the  exposure  when 
the  birds  were  feeding.  One  that  he  got  was  especially 
fine,  showing  very  plainly  the  dragon  fly  with  its  long 
gauzy  wings  held  by  the  bill  of  the  male,  and  "getting" 
the  whole  family  at  one  shot. 

To  my  great  satisfaction  no  one  molested  the  King- 
birds, though  everyone  in  the  neighborhood  knew  of 
the  curiosity.  I  saw  them  the  afternoon  before  they 
left  the  nest  for  good.  The  little  fellows  looked  very 
pretty  with  their  snow-white  little  shirts,  standing  up 
on  the  post  with  their  mother  beside  them,  and  I  got  a 
snapshot  of  them  thus  with  my  reflecting  camera  as  I 
walked  along  the  road  past  them.  With  some  difficulty 
I  obtained  another  picture  as  the  father  fed  them,  but 
the  old  birds  were  shier  of  the  camera  now,  and  the 
young  were  not  fed  so  often.  I  praised  the  boys  for 
not  disturbing  the  nice  family  and  promised  each  of 
them  a  picture. 

Nearly  everyone  knows  how  boldly  the  Kingbirds 
defend  their  nests  and  has  seen  them  chase  the  thieving 
crows,  flying  at  them  from  above  and  pecking  them 
sorely  as  they  try  vainly  to  escape.  They  even  keep 
off  hawks  from  the  farmer's  premises  and  destroy  such 
a  multitude  of  insects  that  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  a 
pair  of  them  located  in  the  orchard.  So  indignant  are 
they  when  anyone  comes  near  the  nest  that  I  have 
taken  advantage  of  this  to  snap  them  with  my  reflecting 
camera.  I  use  a  single  "22-inch"  lens  of  my  eleven- 

127 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

inch-focus  doublet,  and  an  aperture  of  the  curtain  of 
about  an  inch  and  a  half,  with  a  moderate  speed. 
Taking  the  bird  perched  upon  a  branch,  one  can  thus 
get  a  good  large  image  with  plenty  of  detail  in  bright 
sunlight. 

The  Kingbird  gets  its  name  from  its  pugnacious  ways 
when  it  must  stand  for  its  rights.  It  does  not,  however, 
bully  other  birds  without  good  reason;  yet,  when  it 
decides  to  assert  itself,  it  is  usually  able  to  enforce  its 
simple  requirement  that  the  undesirable  intruder  shall 
"get  out."  It  has  fighting  blood  in  its  veins,  for  all  the 
other  species  of  this  distinct  and  interesting  order  of 
flycatchers  are  good  fighters.  Their  main  business  is 
to  catch  flying  insects,  and  they  all  have  their  art  down 
to  a  fine  point.  Their  method  is  different  from  that 
of  the  swallows,  for  instead  of  keeping  long  a-wing,  as 
the  latter,  the  true  "flycatcher"  stations  itself  on  some 
perch  which  commands  a  view,  like  a  hawk,  dashes  to 
catch  the  unwary  insect;  and  returns  at  once  to  its 
observatory.  Various  other  birds  dart  after  flying 
insects,  but  have  other  means  of  livelihood,  while  the 
"flycatcher"  confines  itself  largely  to  this  one  way. 

We  have  another  "Tyrant  Flycatcher,"  which  prob- 
ably is  equally  tyrannical  with  the  bird  that  bears  the 
royal  name — the  Crested  Flycatcher.  Few  people 
know  it,  for  it  is  rather  scarce  and  very  shy.  Though 
it  generally  chooses  orchards  for  residence,  it  prefers 
those  that  are  abandoned  or  off  from  houses,  at  the  edge 
of  the  woods.  Even  there  it  is  rather  hard  to  see  the 

128 


PROFESSIONAL   FLY-CATCHING 

bird,  which  is  about  as  large  as  the  Kingbird,  for  it 
gets  out  of  the  way  when  it  notes  our  approach;  but 
its  presence  may  be  known  by  the  single  loud  ringing 
whistle  which  is  different  from  any  other  bird  note  I 
know.  They  nest  in  a  hollow  limb,  and  it  is  notorious 
that  in  building  they  almost  always  use  cast-off  snake 
skins.  The  eggs  are  very  handsomely  and  heavily 
marked  with  lines  and  scrawls. 

There  are  two  common  flycatchers  which  are  liable 
to  be  confused,  the  Phoebe  and  the  Wood  Pewee. 
Both  are  small  gray  birds  with  whitish  and  partly  dusky 
breasts.  The  Phoebe  is  our  familiar  home  bird  which 
builds  its  nest  of  moss  and  mud  under  some  sheltered 
part  of  our  buildings,  even  over  our  very  door,  or  under 
the  piazza.  The  Wood  Pewee  may  also  be  seen  about 
the  premises,  but  it  keeps  to  the  tall  shade  trees,  where 
it  builds  a  frail  lichen-covered  nest  flat  on  some  branch 
or  fork.  It  is  a  good  deal  like  the  architecture  of  a 
hummingbird  and  is  just  about  as  hard  to  discover. 
The  note  of  the  Wood  Pewee  is  that  clear  plaintive 
whistle — "pee-wee-ee" — and  we  surely  knowr  the  short, 
throaty  note  "phe-be"  of  our  Phcebe.  Another  way  of 
distinguishing  the  Wood  Pewee  is  that  it  is  rather  more 
slender  than  Phoebe,  generally  with  a  darker  breast, 
and  it  seldom  jerks  its  tail,  which  last  it  is  Phoebe's 
constant  delight  to  do. 

The  Phoebe  is  a  hardy  bird  and  comes  back  for  the 
summer  at  a  very  unsummerlike  time,  the  last  week  of 
March,  setting  one  to  wondering  how  it  finds  flying 

129 


PROFESSIONAL   FLY-CATCHING 

insects  in  such  cold  weather.  Yet  notice  on  the  sunny 
side  of  the  building,  when  the  sun  shines  brightly,  how 
many  flies  are  buzzing  about,  which  proves  that  there 
are  flies,  if  one  only  knows  where  to  look  for  them,  and 
surely  our  professional  fly-catcher  knows  that  much. 
But  if  anyone  claims  to  have  heard  a  Phoebe  back  in 
mid-winter,  do  not  believe  it,  for  the  Chickadee  makes  a 
"pewee"  note,  and  many  are  the  people  who  are  fooled 
and  publish  their  mistake  in  the  local  paper.  We  are 
safe  to  assume  that,  no  flies,  no  Phoebes. 

The  hardy  bird  has  its  nest  built  some  time  in  the 
latter  half  of  April,  according  to  the  sort  of  season  that 
prevails,  and  lays  five  white  eggs,  sometimes  sparsely 
spotted.  Before  the  country  was  settled,  the  usual 
nesting  place  was  under  an  overhanging  rock,  and  even 
now  some  of  them  keep  up  the  old  custom.  I  have 
discovered  a  number  of  such,  and  Ned  found  one  close 
by  where  I  was  photographing  the  nest  of  another  bird, 
a  little  way  below  the  foot  of  a  beautiful  waterfall. 

For  the  past  three  years  a  pair  of  Phcebes  have 
nested  in  my  barn,  and  reared  two  broods  of  young 
each  season — six  broods  in  all,  laying  five  eggs  the  first 
time,  and  four  the  second,  and  usually  hatching  and 
rearing  them  all,  or  all  but  one.  The  nest  was  on  the 
projecting  end  of  a  board  nailed  across  two  ceiling 
beams,  just  over  where  I  drove  in  with  the  horse  and 
buggy.  Each  year  the  Phoebe  found  the  old  nest  all 
right,  so  she  used  it  five  times  in  succession,  but  this 
last  time  she  built  another  nest  at  the  other  end  of  the 

130 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

barn  in  a  similar  situation.  At  first  I  wondered  why 
she  deserted  such  a  nice  nest,  but  I  found  out.  One 
day  I  put  my  hand  into  the  new  nest  to  see  how  many 
young  there  were,  and  presently  I  began  to  scratch  my 
head.  Oh,  how  I  did  itch  all  that  night!  My  sus- 
picions were  aroused,  so  I  touched  the  young  again, 
and  looked  at  my  hand.  A  whole  army  of  lice  were 
hurrying  to  run  up  my  sleeve  and  I  fled  to  the  water 
faucet  and  put  a  stop  to  the  migration.  Ned  does  not 
see  how  the  young  can  stand  it,  and  neither  do  I. 

We  both  photographed  the  Phoebe  bird  on  the  nest. 
The  way  I  did  it  was  to  bring  three  barrels  nearly 
under  the  nest  and  set  up  the  tripod  with  full  extension, 
so  that  the  camera  was  away  up  to  the  ceiling.  Stand- 
ing on  a  step  ladder,  I  could  focus  on  the  sitting  bird, 
but  the  light  was  so  dim  that  I  had  to  set  up  a  large 
mirror  outdoors  and  throw  a  sunbeam  on  the  nest. 
Then  I  could  make  short  exposures  on  her,  or  remove 
the  mirror  and  make  the  exposure  last  two  minutes. 
The  dear  little  bird  sat  perfectly  still,  and  I  had  the  best 
results  the  latter  way;  the  picture  was  not  so  harsh. 

In  the  early  spring,  this  last  season,  soon  after  the 
Phoebes  arrived,  a  sad  accident  occurred.  It  was  a 
windy  day  and  I  saw  the  barn  door  slam  violently. 
I  was  minded  to  go  and  prop  it,  but  kept  on  and  did 
not.  Later  in  the  afternoon  a  member  of  my  family 
brought  in  the  dead  body  of  the  male  Phcebe,  still 
warm,  with  his  neck  broken.  The  little  fellow  had 
alighted  on  the  door,  and  it  caught  him  as  it  slammed. 

131 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

I  felt  very  sorry,  for  I  thought  that  now  there  would 
be  no  Phcebes  in  the  barn.  But  in  a  few  days  I  saw 
the  female  on  the  old  nest,  preparing  to  lay,  and  hei 
mate  perched  on  the  apple  tree  by  the  door.  Husband; 
were  evidently  plenty  and  cheap,  especially  for  a  rich 
widow  with  such  fine  property.  The  new  bridegroom 
looked  exactly  like  the  former  one,  and  our  mourning 
was  turned  into  gladness. 

That  same  season  another  tragedy  occurred  in  the 
family  of  a  pair  of  Wood  Pewees.  These  birds  are  not 
so  hardy  or  so  early  in  nesting  as  the  Phcebes,  and  it 
was  not  till  the  middle  of  June  that  I  noticed,  in  driving 
frequently  through  a  grove  of  locust  trees,  that  a  pair 
of  Wood  Pewees  were  always  there  in  the  same  spot. 
*'I  declare,  Ned,"  I  exclaimed,  as  we  drove  past  again 
and  saw  a  Wood  Pewee  in  the  accustomed  place,  "there 
must  be  a  nest  right  here,  and  I'm  going  to  stop  and 
look."  So  I  got  out  of  the  buggy  and  immediately 
saw  the  shallow  nest  built  over  a  crotch  of  an  extended 
branch  over  the  road  above  my  head,  about  twenty 
feet  above  the  ground.  It  contained  two  young. 

We  could  not  stop  then,  but  a  few  days  later  we 
returned,  hoping  to  photograph  the  nest  and  get  snap- 
shots of  the  old  birds,  which  were  not  shy.  First  I  got 
out  the  reflecting  camera,  and  had  Ned  climb  the  tree, 
hoping  that  the  female  would  come  at  him  and  let  me 
snap  her  with  my  twenty-two-inch  lens.  But  she  was  a 
meek  little  body  and  merely  wailed  her  "pee-ee-ee" 
from  the  surrounding  trees.  I  had  to  chase  her  around 

132 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

for  half  an  hour,  but  got  some  quite  good  snapshots, 
as  she  perched  on  dead  stubs  where  the  sunlight  hap- 
pened to  strike  on  her  through  the  leaves. 

Then  we  turned  our  attention  to  the  nest  and  Ned's 
sharp  eyes  were  the  first  to  discover  that  the  whole 
bottom  had  fallen  out  and  one  of  the  young  had 
tumbled  through,  had  become  entangled,  and  dangled 
dead  from  the  bottom  of  the  nest.  Nothing  was  left 
of  it  but  the  rim  and  the  other  youngster  was  perched 
upon  that.  I  failed  to  get  any  satisfactory  photograph, 
as  the  only  possible  location  for  the  camera  was  too 
far  away  to  show  so  small  an  object,  and  the  brittle 
locust  limb  would  not  bear  one's  weight.  The  next 
time  I  went  by,  the  dead  young  one  had  disappeared. 
The  other  stayed  on  the  rim  of  the  nest  or  the  branch 
for  some  days.  Then  came  a  terrific  wind  and  thunder 
storm,  and  the  next  day,  when  I  passed,  the  youngster 
was  gone,  probably  blown  off  and  drowned,  poor  thing! 

There  is  another  flycatcher  closely  related  to  the 
Wood  Pewee,  the  Olive-sided  Flycatcher,  which  we 
may  look  for  only  in  the  migrations  as  it  usually  goes 
further  north  to  breed.  It  looks  much  like  the  Wood 
Pewee,  but  is  larger,  nearly  the  size  of  the  Crested 
Flycatcher.  It  is  rather  rare  and  I  have  only  met  with 
it  a  few  times,  generally  seeing  it  chasing  flies  from  some 
perch  in  a  high  tree  on  the  edge  of  woods  or  along 
a  shaded,  retired  road. 

Except  for  the  Kingbird  and  Crested  Flycatcher,  all 
our  flycatchers  are  dull-colored  gray  and  white  birds, 

183 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

and  some  of  them  are  hard  to  tell  apart.  Those  already 
spoken  of  can  be  distinguished  by  differences  in  size 
or  build,  but  there  are  several  little  fellows  which  are 
so  much  alike  that  it  takes  a  sharp  eye  and  careful 
study  of  the  Handbook,  to  identify  them.  Those  which 
may  cause  confusion  are  the  Alder,  Acadian,  and  Least 
Flycatchers.  The  Yellow-bellied  Flycatcher  may  be 
recognized  by  what  its  name  implies.  The  Acadian 
Flycatcher,  a  greenish-hued  little  bird,  is  seldom  seen 
north  of  the  Middle  States. 

Of  small  species  the  Least  Flycatcher  is  by  far  the 
best  known.  It  is  the  familiar  little  fellow  that  nests 
in  orchards  and  shade  trees,  and  it  is  constantly  repeat- 
ing its  sharp,  scolding  note,  from  which  they  call  it 
"Chebec."  One  year,  in  June,  I  was  about  to  start  on 
a  trip  up  north  into  the  Province  of  Quebec,  and  every 
morning  one  of  these  little  birds,  perched  just  outside 
my  open  bedroom  windows,  would  begin  at  the  first 
early  ray  of  dawn  and  wake  me  up  by  calling  out 
"Quebec,  Quebec."  We  had  a  lot  of  fun  over  it, 
because  members  of  my  family  said  the  bird  was  very 
anxious  to  get  me  off  to  Quebec  so  that  I  should  not 
be  annoying  it  with  my  camera-fiend  tricks. 

The  nest  is  apt  to  be  out  on  a  slender  branch  and  is 
not  easy  to  photograph.  But  I  took  pictures  of  one 
with  a  brood  of  young  about  ready  to  leave  by  standing 
on  a  ladder,  against  which  I  leaned  the  camera  on  the 
tripod  and  managed  to  keep  it  still  enough.  Another 
time  there  was  a  nest  out  on  the  end  of  a  branch  of  a 

134 


Snapshot  of  Wood  Pewee.     "As  she  perched  on  dead  stubs"  (p.  133). 


Young  Least  Flycatcher.    "They  call  it  'Chebec'"  (p.  134). 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

pear  tree,  about  a  dozen  feet  up.  I  secured  the  picture 
of  the  mother  bird  incubating  by  standing  on  a  step- 
ladder  with  my  reflecting  camera  and  the  big  lens, 
having  a  young  lady  throw  light  upon  the  subject,  not 
by  means  of  her  discourse  or  countenance,  but  by  a 
mirror  which  reflected  a  sunbeam  upon  the  shaded  nest. 

All  my  life  until  the  past  June  I  had  never  been  able 
to  find  the  nest  of  the  Alder  Flycatcher — which  is  a 
recent  name  for  the  eastern  form  of  the  species  long 
known  as  Traill's  Flycatcher.  A  friend  of  mine  in  a 
town  not  far  from  where  I  live,  at  a  higher  elevation, 
finding  this  interesting  little  bird  quite  common  there, 
invited  me  to  visit  him  and  see  the  rare  flycatcher  and 
its  nesting.  They  are  late  breeders,  seldom  laying 
before  the  middle  of  June,  and  I  did  not  go  till  the 
twenty-seventh . 

The  bird  is  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  timid  and 
secretive  of  the  smaller  species  and  to  frequent  alder 
swamps.  I  had  always  supposed  that  the  place  to 
look  for  it  was  in  dense  alder  thickets,  so  I  was  quite 
surprised  when  my  friend  conducted  me  into  a  moist 
pasture  where  there  were  only  scattered  branches  of 
low  alder  bushes,  most  of  them  not  over  a  yard  high. 
In  one  of  these  he  had  located  a  nest  some  days  before, 
in  process  of  building.  Here  it  was  now,  only  a  foot 
from  the  ground,  with  one  pretty,  pinkish  egg  with 
reddish  spots  around  the  larger  end — a  neat  nest,  not 
unlike  that  of  the  Chestnut-sided  Warbler.  The  owner 
did  not  appear. 

135 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

We  spent  the  rest  of  that  day  with  other  birds  and 
the  next  morning  went  to  another  nest  site,  in  a  pasture 
through  which  flows  a  large  meadow  brook.  There 
were  scattered  clumps  of  alders,  some  of  them  of  good 
height,  but  plenty  of  small  ones,  too.  This  nest,  how- 
ever, was  not  in  an  alder,  though  close  to  some,  but  in 
some  other  sort  of  bush,  two  feet  from  the  ground.  It 
contained  four  eggs,  slightly  incubated.  They  were 
warm,  but  the  shy  bird  had  slipped  away.  Setting  the 
camera,  well  concealed,  in  the  next  bush,  for  a  short 
timed  exposure,  with  thread  attached,  we  went  off  for 
over  an  hour  to  give  the  bird  a  chance  to  return.  The 
Alder  Flycatcher  is  so  very  shy  that  I  had  my  doubts 
as  to  whether  she  would  ever  return  to  the  nest  with  a 
camera  near  it. 

When  we  returned,  I  crept  up  within  twenty  yards 
of  the  nest  to  where  I  had  left  the  spool  and  pulled  the 
thread.  The  eggs  were  warm,  so  the  bird  was  doubt- 
less on  when  the  shutter  opened.  Yes,  and  to  my 
horror  it  was  still  open  and  the  plate  spoiled !  Taking 
apart  the  shutter,  I  found  that  some  of  the  delicate 
mechanism  had  collapsed  and  that  photography  was 
all  up  for  the  present.  Luckily  the  jeweler  in  town  was 
able  to  repair  it,  and  early  the  next  morning,  my  last 
day  there,  I  was  at  the  nest.  It  was  cloudy  so  I  had 
to  allow  for  a  half -second  exposure. 

After  setting  the  camera  I  made  a  slight  opening  in 
the  bushes  so  that  I  was  able  to  watch  the  nest  with  my 
strong  Zeiss  glass  from  quite  a  distance.  To  my  de- 

136 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

light,  within  five  minutes  the  bird  hopped  back  on  to 
the  nest  and  did  not  move  at  the  click  of  the  shutter. 

To  make  this  story  short,  I  repeated  this  operation  a 
dozen  times,  securing  a  fine  array  of  pictures,  probably 
the  first  ever  taken  of  the  Alder  Flycatcher  from  life. 
The  camera  was  within  a  yard  of  the  nest  and  I  used 
the  single  twelve-inch  lens.  The  bird  became  so 
accustomed  to  my  presence  that  she  would  return  to 
her  task  sometimes  the  moment  I  withdrew.  I  could 
walk  up  within  a  few  feet  of  her  as  she  sat  on  the  nest, 
and  once  she  let  me  change  the  plate  and  photograph 
her  by  hand  without  leaving.  The  last  few  times  I 
pulled  the  thread  as  she  stood  erect  on  the  rim  of  the 
nest  preparatory  to  descending  into  it. 

Evidently  the  shyness  of  the  Alder  Flycatcher  is  not 
unconquerable  and  is  due  rather  to  a  natural  timidity 
than  to  dislike  for  our  sort  of  people.  But  shy  the  bird 
certainly  is.  Except  for  this  one  drawn  to  the  nest  by 
maternal  instinct,  it  was  hard  to  get  even  a  glimpse  of 
them.  They  are  very  silent,  too.  The  only  sounds  I 
heard  from  those  intruded  upon  was  a  very  soft,  low 
"pweet."  In  the  distance  the  song  of  the  male  was 
hardly  audible,  if,  indeed,  it  deserves  to  be  called  a 
song,  only  two  syllables  like  "pe-weet." 

Leaving  this  spot,  perfectly  delighted  at  my  success,  I 
drove  to  the  other  nest  to  see  if  the  eggs  were  laid  and 
how  that  bird  would  act.  Other  birds  that  I  met 
delayed  me,  and,  missing  the  exact  clump  of  alders, 
as  there  was  not  time  for  a  careful  search  I  was  about 

137 


PROFESSIONAL    FLY-CATCHING 

to  give  up,  when  I  put  my  hand  into  the  very  last  likely 
clump  of  small  alders  in  the  open,  at  the  edge  of  a  high 
alder  thicket.  I  almost  touched  a  bird,  which  darted 
off  in  a  great  fright.  Actually  it  was  another  Alder 
Flycatcher's  nest,  with  two  eggs,  within  only  a  few 
yards  of  the  one  I  had  missed,  situated  much  as  was 
that  one — so  much  so  that  I  would  not  have  believed 
it  the  same,  only  it  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
clump.  Just  then  it  began  to  rain,  but  I  managed  to 
take  two  photographs  of  it,  and,  by  driving  fast,  barely 
caught  my  train  to  return  home. 


138 


Typical  nest  of  Alder  Flycatcher  (p.  138). 


Alder  Flycatcher.     "As  she  stood  erect  on  the  rim  of  her  nest"  (p.  137\ 


CHAPTER  IX 

CROW     RELATIVES 

(Crows,  Jays,  Blackbirds,  Orioles,  Larks) 

STARTING    off    bright    and    early   that    elegant 
morning,  the  fifteenth  of  May,  Ned  and  I  drove 
twenty   miles   over   the   roughest   sort  of   roads 
through  a  wild  hill  country  and  explored  many  a  fine 
timber  tract.     It  was  just  the  day  for  active  exercise, 
bright,   but   with   a   cool   easterly   breeze.     Hosts    of 
interesting  bird  migrants  were  streaming  through  on 
their  way  north   and   kept  us  busy  identifying  them. 
We  found  five  occupied  hawks'  nests  with  eggs,  and 
it  was  a  great  day  for  crows'  nests,  too. 

In  the  second  piece  of  woods  which  we  tackled,  we 
were  searching  for  a  hawks'  nest,  which  we  found  a 
little  later,  when  I  discovered  a  large  platform  of  new 
sticks  about  thirty-five  feet  up  a  hemlock  tree,  with  a 
bird's  tail  sticking  out  over  the  edge.  At  first  we  both 
thought  it  was  the  hawk,  but  the  glass  showed  the 
plumage  to  be  "black  as  a  crow,"  and  crow  it  was. 
It  was  no  come-down  either,  for  I  especially  wanted  a 
really  good  photograph  of  a  nest  with  a  brood  of  young 
crows.  The  old  bird  was  sitting  like  a  rock  and 

139 


CROW   RELATIVES 

would  not  leave  till  I  rapped  the  tree.  Then  I  went 
upstairs  to  the  nursery,  after  strapping  on  the  climbers, 
and  found  three  ugly,  nearly  naked  young.  They 
were  too  small  to  work  upon  successfully,  so  I  left  them 
to  grow  larger. 

After  this  we  drove  up  a  long  hill  through  the  woods. 
The  timber  was  mostly  small,  but  we  came  to  some 
that  was  of  good  size,  where  we  hitched  the  horse  and 
took  a  scramble  up  the  steep  hillside.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments I  saw  a  large  nest  high  up  in  a  large  chestnut 
tree.  A  crow  was  brooding  on  this  one,  too,  and  she 
was  as  loath  to  depart  as  the  other  bird.  The  nest  was 
so  inaccessible  for  photographing  that  we  did  not 
climb,  but  drove  on  a  number  of  miles  further,  devouring 
an  ample  lunch,  as  we  proceeded,  with  keen  appetites. 

The  next  tract  which  we  decided  to  explore  was  a 
grove  of  moderate-sized  oak  timber  wrhich  proved  to  be 
smaller  than  I  had  thought,  and  I  was  at  first  sorry 
that  we  had  bothered  with  it.  There  were  several 
squirrels'  nests,  and  presently  I  saw  a  nest  that  looked 
promising.  It  was  only  about  twenty  feet  up  a  slender 
young  oak,  and  there  was  a  bird  on  it,  a  crow,  I  saw, 
as  I  came  nearer.  Beside  her,  at  the  edge  of  the  nest,  I 
could  see  some  bright  red  objects  which  puzzled  me 
until  I  made  out  that  they  were  the  widely  opened 
mouths  of  young  crows  which  were  poking  out  their 
heads  from  under  the  brooding  mother  and  begging  for 
food. 

The  old  bird  left  when  I  came  very  near  and  I  saw 
140 


CROW   RELATIVES 

that  here  was  a  splendid  chance  for  just  the  picture  I 
wanted.  Another  small  oak  grew  close  alongside  the 
one  with  the  nest,  at  just  the  right  distance  and  in  the 
right  direction,  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  nest.  Ned  ran 
to  get  the  small  camera  and  the  tree  apparatus,  while 
I  climbed  the  tree  next  to  the  nest  and  looked  in.  Five 
hungry  little  crows,  nearly  fledged,  raised  their  heads 
and  opened  their  mouths  as  wide  as  they  knew  how, 
beseeching  me  to  appease  their  gnawing  appetites. 
Pretty  soon  Ned  came  back  with  the  camera,  and, 
after  going  down  to  get  it  and  climbing  back,  I  went  to 
work  to  screw  it  up.  It  took  certainly  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  make  everything  ready.  By  this  time  the 
youngsters  had  settled  sleepily  down  into  the  nest  and 
would  not  rouse  up  to  beg  for  food,  till  I  bethought 
myself  to  cut  a  switch  and  stir  them  up.  No  sooner 
done  than,  presto,  up  popped  five  black  heads,  with 
five  red-flannel  mouths  stretched  agape,  from  which 
were  issuing  excited  caws,  because  they  thought  that 
mother  had  arrived.  Instantly  I  squeezed  the  bulb 
and  had  them  just  as  I  wanted  them.  I  barely  had 
time  to  finish  the  work  when  it  clouded  over  darkly, 
so  we  drove  off. 

I  planned  to  photograph  these  youngsters  again 
when  they  were  about  to  leave  the  nests,  so  I  drove 
back  there  alone  some  days  afterward.  But  I  had 
waited  just  too  long.  My  subjects  were  there,  but  they 
had  left  the  nest  and  could  fly  from  tree  to  tree,  so  that 
it  would  have  required  the  help  of  a  gun  to  capture 

141 


.CROW    RELATIVES 

them.  On  the  way  home  I  visited  the  other  two  nests, 
but  the  young  had  left  the  one  in  the  tall  chestnut,  and 
in  the  hemlock  nest  all  that  was  left  was  about  half  of 
one  of  the  young  ones.  My  friend  the  hawk  had  been 
finding  the  gentle  art  of  eating  crow  not  as  disagreeable 
as  some  suppose.  This  was  proper  enough,  in  all 
justice,  to  avenge  the  pillaging  of  many  a  small  bird's 
nest  by  the  black  rascals. 

The  only  way  that  I  knew  of  at  this  late  day  to  get 
young  crows  to  photograph,  was  to  hustle  and  find 
some.  Truly  I  worked  hard,  but  I  had  no  success  till 
I  came  across  a  friend  who  recently,  while  resting  in 
some  woods,  had  seen  a  crow  fly  to  a  nest  in  a  low 
fork  of  a  big  chestnut  tree.  One  may  be  sure  I  lost 
no  time  in  having  him  show  me  the  nest,  the  only 
delay  being  to  examine  the  nest  of  an  Ovenbird  which 
fluttered  from  her  eggs  almost  at  my  feet.  All  was 
silent  at  the  crow's  nest,  but  I  took  the  camera  with 
me  up  a  sapling  which  grew  beside  the  other  tree,  and 
saw  three  young  crows  almost  fully  fledged  squatting 
low  in  the  nest.  They  were  too  old  to  beg  for  food, 
having  learned  to  fear,  so  I  photographed  them  as  they 
were,  in  the  nest;  then  I  climbed  to  the  nest,  took 
them  down  in  a  creel,  photographed  them  on  a  log,  and 
restored  them  to  their  home,  though  my  friend  was  for 
wringing  their  necks.  After  I  was  gone  I  suspect  that 
they  went  the  way  of  all  the  world! 

Although  the  crow  is  usually  a  shy  bird,  it  is  perfectly 
possible  to  photograph  it  at  the  nest,  provided  that  one 


Blue  Jay.     "Incubating  on  the  first  day  of  May"  (p.  144). 


Blue  Jay.     "Scolded  from  the  foliage  above  me"  (p.  146). 


CROW   RELATIVES 

find  a  nest  favorably  situated.  I  have  not  attempted 
it  owing  to  pressure  of  other  work,  but  once  I  placed 
a  dummy  camera  close  to  a  nest  with  young,  and  the 
old  birds  soon  learned  to  ignore  it  and  fed  their  off- 
spring. In  the  West  the  crows  are  much  tamer  than 
here  in  the  East.  Out  in  North  Dakota,  I  have  been 
able  to  walk  within  a  few  steps  of  crows  incubating 
in  low  trees,  and  it  probably  would  not  have  been  very 
hard  to  photograph  them,  had  I  been  able  to  take 
the  time. 

Everyone  knows  how  tame  they  become  in  severe 
winter  weather  when  the  snow  is  deep.  Chilled  and 
emaciated,  they  come  close  to  houses  and  barns  seeking 
food.  Some  years  ago  one  came  to  a  city  street  so 
exhausted  that  it  could  not  fly,  and  I  rescued  it  from 
a  gang  of  cruel  boys  who  were  kicking  it  to  death.  I 
saw  the  remains  of  one  on  the  snow  in  the  woods, 
which  a  fox  had  eaten,  as  was  shown  by  the  many 
tracks,  and  they  sometimes  fall  victims  to  hawks  and 
owls.  Near  a  certain  hawk's  nest  recently,  one  lay 
dead  on  the  ground,  with  the  flesh  of  its  breast  torn 
out.  Next  day  nothing  was  there  but  a  few  feathers. 

They  breed  quite  early  and  it  is  time  to  find  their 
eggs  during  the  last  half  of  April.  In  regions  where 
there  are  pines  they  build  in  these,  and  high  up,  where 
the  nests  are  generally  hard  to  see  from  the  ground. 
In  such  country  as  that  where  I  now  live,  pines  are 
scarce,  and  Ned  and  I  hunt  for  crows'  nests  in  decidu- 
ous trees  or  hemlocks. 

143 


CROW   RELATIVES 

Most  people  do  not  realize  that  the  Blue  Jay  is  a 
member  of  the  Crow  family.  But  it  is,  and  has  all  the 
mischievous,  destructive,  thieving  instincts  of  the  crow, 
and  with  a  lot  of  audacity,  or  "cheek,"  thrown  in  for 
good  measure.  It  robs  the  nests  of  other  birds  and  is 
very  unpopular  with  them.  The  appearance  of  a  jay 
about  their  homes  is  the  signal  for  the  breaking  forth 
of  a  general  clamor,  till  the  rascal,  seeing  that  it  is 
found  out,  beats  a  retreat.  Hardy,  like  the  crow,  it  is 
found  throughout  the  year.  Ordinarily  it  is  rather  shy 
about  making  friends  with  man,  but  it  often  shrewdly 
senses  when  it  is  wanted  and  comes  to  him  for  food  in 
cold  weather.  A  friend  of  mine  puts  peanuts  in  the 
shell  out  on  his  piazza  roof,  and  early  in  the  morning 
I  have  watched  the  jays  come  and  eat  down  the  peanuts 
whole,  shucks  and  all. 

The  Blue  Jays'  nest  is  a  rather  neat  structure  of  twigs 
and  rootlets  and  is  built  in  some  low  tree  in  woods, 
swamp  or  pasture,  and  generally  by  early  May  contains 
four  or  five  dark  spotted  eggs.  NowT  and  then  a  jay, 
especially  when  the  young  are  hatched,  is  very  bold  in 
the  defense  of  its  home.  There  are  many  cases  where 
the  bird  has  braved  the  intruder  and  even  allowed 
itself  to  be  handled.  But  I  have  not  yet  had  the  good 
fortune  myself  to  meet  with  such  an  individual.  The 
nearest  I  came  to  it  was  with  one  which  I  found  incubat- 
ing on  the  first  day  of  May  in  a  low  crotch  of  a' small 
tree  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  about  as  high  up  as  my 
head.  This  jay  allowed  me  to  step  up  on  a  stump 

144 


CROW   RELATIVES 

six  or  eight  feet  from  her,  but  only  because  I  moved 
very  slowly.  At  that  time  I  had  a  camera  with  only  a 
small  lens  and  short  bellows,  and  the  best  I  could  get 
was  a  small  picture,  as  she  would  not  return  while  the 
camera  was  set  up  near  the  nest. 

Various  friends  of  mine  have  beaten  me  on  Blue  Jay 
pictures,  but  some  day  I  hope  to  get  even  with  them. 
I  tried  to  do  this  last  spring  and  had  most  exasperating 
luck,  though  I  made  an  encouraging  start,  finding  three 
nests  the  first  day  I  looked.  Early  in  May  I  was  going 
to  a  hawks'  nest  and  passed  some  pasture  cedars, 
bordering  the  woods,  when  I  saw  a  jay  go  skulking 
from  them.  There  was  a  nest  near  by,  just  ready  for 
eggs.  This  set  me  to  searching  the  cedars — always  a 
favorite  resort  for  jays — and  further  along  I  came  upon 
a  jay  sitting  on  four  eg^s,  and  further  still  another 
on  five.  The  birds  were  all  shy,  and,  strange  to  say, 
a  few  days  later,  every  nest  was  deserted  or  robbed. 
This  only  made  me  the  more  determined,  and,  one 
after  another,  I  found  six  more  nests,  nine  occupied 
nests  in  all,  besides  several  other  new  ones  that  had 
been  recently  abandoned.  But  to  be  brief — not  one  of 
these  pairs  raised  its  family.  Only  three  of  them 
hatched,  and  in  these  cases  the  young  disappeared 
before  they  grew  a  feather.  I  had  not  disturbed  them 
in  any  way,  save  one  pair  at  whose  nest  I  set  a  dummy 
camera  awhile,  and  I  charged  the  mischief  upon  crows 
or  other  jays,  though  I  have  no  means  of  definitely 
knowing.  All  I  could  do  in  line  of  pictures  was  to 

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CROW   RELATIVES 

get  a  few  snapshots  with  the  reflecting  camera  of  the 
jays  that  had  young,  as  they  scolded  from  the  foliage 
above  me.  I  shall  keep  on  looking,  though,  and  some 
fine  day,  I  expect  I  shall  find  a  bold  pair  of  jays  after 
my  own  heart.  If  Ned  should  succeed  first,  though,  I 
know  I  should  never  hear  the  last  of  it. 

There  is  a  group,  or  Family,  of  birds  which  comes 
next  after  the  Corvidse,  or  Crows,  called  Icteridse, 
which  means  oriole-like  birds.  It  includes  the  various 
blackbirds,  so  that  it  is  easy  to  think  of  them  along 
with  the  crow.  One  of  its  members  is  the  Meadow- 
lark,  which  is  really  not  a  lark  at  all.  The  Family  of 
true  Larks  comes  in  the  classification  just  before  the 
Crows,  and,  as  we  have  just  one  species,  we  may  as 
well  mention  it  here  with  the  Meadowlark.  It  is  the 
Horned  Lark,  or  Shore  Lark.  During  the  winter 
months  they  come  down  to  us  from  the  cold  North, 
especially  along  the  seacoast,  on  beaches  or  sand 
dunes.  How  I  have  enjoyed  midwinter  seashore 
strolls,  and  this  pretty  lark,  with  its  .salmon  tints, 
black  half -moon  on  the  breast  and  curious  little  feathery 
"horns."  They  go  in  scattered  flocks,  often  with  the 
handsome  white  Snowflake,  or  Snow  Bunting.  We 
trace  them  by  their  mellow  chirpings  and  find  them 
here  and  there  among  the  beach  grass,  picking  up  the 
seeds.  Like  enough  we  alarm  them  and  away  goes 
the  flock  all  at  once.  For  a  while  they  circle  about  in 
the  air,  and  finally  return,  perhaps,  to  nearly  the  same 
place.  Inland  they  are  not  so  common,  yet  we  are 

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CROW   RELATIVES 

liable  to  run  across  them  now  and  then  in  winter,  in 
open  fields,  especially  with  flocks  of  Snow  Buntings. 
There  is  also  a  pale  Western  form  of  this  species  called 
the  Prairie  Horned  Lark.  This  occasionally  breeds 
with  us  anywhere  in  the  East,  frequenting  dry  fields 
and  barren  pastures  or  hillsides.  If  one  see  a  pale, 
bleached-looking  lark,  look  out,  for  it  is  something 
worth  while!  A  pair  stopped  one  spring  late  in  April 
about  two  miles  from  where  I  live.  Ned  kept  track  of 
them  for  me  and  often  heard  their  sweet  warbled  songs. 
We  surely  thought  they  were  intending  to  breed  and 
spend  the  summer,  but  in  two  weeks  they  disappeared. 
In  these  same  fields  the  Meadowlark  is  found,  fairly 
commonly,  but  not  as  much  so  as  it  used  to  be.  For- 
merly it  was  hunted  as  game,  but  nowT  it  is  protected 
as  one  of  our  most  valuable  destroyers  of  grubs  and 
insects  that  damage  the  grass  land.  About  the  middle 
of  May  they  have  eggs  in  a  well-concealed  nest  in  a 
bunch  of  dry  grass,  arched  over  on  top.  The  male  is 
very  watchful  and  gives  his  sitting  wife  the  alarm  when 
he  sees  anyone  coming,  and  at  once  she  sneaks  off 
without  flying  directly  from  the  nest.  Consequently 
the  nest  is  very  hard  to  find.  But  now  and  then  I 
have  taken  the  sentinel  off  his  guard,  especially  in  the 
evening,  and  by  mere  chance  flushed  the  female  from 
her  eggs  when  I  had  almost  trodden  upon  her.  The 
farmer  in  mowing  his  fields  is  the  most  apt  of  anyone 
to  find  this  hid  treasure,  for  the  bird  often  rears  two 
broods,  the  last  even  as  late  as  July  or  August.  One 

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CROW   RELATIVES 

farmer  showed  me  a  nest  late  in  August  which  a  day 
or  two  before  I  saw  it  had  contained  two  unsound 
eggs  and  two  young  birds  nearly  grown.  When  I 
came,  one  of  these  had  traveled  off  in  the  grass  on  hir 
stout  long  legs,  and  somehow  an  egg  had  disappeared , 
but  I  photographed  what  was  left,  glad  enough  of  the 
chance. 

The  Western  form  of  this  species,  called  the  Western 
Meadowlark,  is  a  beautiful  singer  and  is  perhaps  the 
most  beloved  of  birds  to  the  settler  upon  the  vast 
prairie.  And  I,  too,  on  my  expeditions,  have  enjoyed 
them  and  their  fine  music. 

Next  come  our  Orioles,  and  not  everyone  knows  that 
we  have  two  kinds.  The  brilliant  Baltimore  Oriole 
that  builds  its  remarkable  hanging  nest  from  the  tips 
of  the  elm  boughs  along  our  shaded  town  or  village 
streets  is  the  one  that  is  so  widely  known.  Very 
promptly  each  spring  on  the  fourth  to  sixth  of  May, 
Ned  and  I  hear  its  clear  notes  again,  after  its  long  trip 
to  South  or  Central  America  and  back  since  we  last 
saw  it.  As  with  many  birds,  the  males  arrive  some 
time  before  the  females.  But  before  long  they  are  all 
here  and  mated,  and  then  begins  the  making  of  their 
very  remarkable  suspended  pouch  nests.  Everyone 
knows  of  the  wonderful  skill  with  which  they  weave 
into  these  structures  all  sorts  of  material  in  ways  that 
would  defy  our  ingenuity.  When  I  was  a  boy  my 
mother  hung  out  some  nice  lace  work  from  the  window 
of  our  home,  in  the  suburbs  of  Boston,  to  bleach  and 

148 


• 


Rusty  Grackle.     "Emitting  a  flood  of  saucy  expletives"  (p.  155). 


Nest  of  Meadowlark.     "Photographed  what  was  left"  (p.  148). 


Nest  of  Orchard  Oriole,  with  bill  of  young  projecting  (p.  150). 


Young  Orchard  Orioles.     "Placed  two     ...     on  a  branch"  (p.  150). 


CROW   RELATIVES 

dry.  A  pair  of  orioles  were  building  a  nest  in  the  elm 
close  by  and  they  appropriated  the  lace.  We  never 
knew  what  had  become  of  it  till  in  the  autumn  a  great  ( 
gale  blew  down  the  branch  on  which  hung  the  orioles' 
nest,  and  there  was  the  lace  woven  into  it  so  skillfully 
that  it  took  a  long  time  to  get  it  out,  somewhat  the  worse 
for  wear.  But  we  like  to  hang  out  less  expensive 
material,  strings  and  yarn,  and  see  the  orioles  tug  at 
it  and  carry  it  off  to  their  nests.  A  little  girl  up  in  our 
section  of  the  country  had  a  fine  scheme.  She  prepared 
warp  and  woof  for  the  orioles'  use,  and  to  each  piece 
tied  a  label  with  her  name  and  the  date.  The  orioles 
made  good  use  of  it  and  were  willing  to  give  her  their 
free  advertising,  for  a  number  of  fluttering  tags  hung 
from  the  nest  announcing  that  the  firm  of  "Helen 
Pease"  had  supplied  building  material. 

The  other  species  is  the  Orchard  Oriole,  a  somewhat 
smaller  bird,  less  brilliantly  colored,  and  much  rarer 
than  the  Baltimore.  It  is  seldom  seen  further  north 
than  the  latitude  of  southern  New  England.  As  its 
name  implies,  it  is  partial  to  orchards.  There,  in  a 
pear  or  apple  tree,  often  close  to  houses,  it  builds  its 
nest,  which  is  not  so  deep  or  elaborate  as  the  Baltimore's, 
nor  so  pensile,  and  is  made  of  dry  grass. 

On  a  certain  farm  one  or  two  pairs  of  both  kinds  of 
orioles  were  accustomed  to  build.  Both  of  them  liked 
the  pear  trees  for  a  nesting  site,  but  the  brilliant  bird 
also  used  the  elms  and  the  other  the  apple  trees.  It  is 
a  hard  matter,  usually,  to  photograph  any  orioles' 

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CROW   RELATIVES 

nest  in  situ.  Many  a  nest  hanging  tantalizingly  before 
me  I  have  been  unable  to  reach.  But  one  year,  on 
this  farm,  a  pair  of  Orchard  Orioles  built  their  nest  in 
the  middle  of  a  large  apple  tree,  though  among  the 
topmost  twigs,  and  it  seemed  as  though  here  must  be  a 
chance  for  a  picture,  if  ever  I  was  to  have  one.  After 
discussing  the  situation  with  Ned,  we  borrowed  a  tall 
ladder  and  set  it  up  against  the  tree.  Then  I  went  up 
with  camera  and  tripod  to  the  top  of  the  ladder  and 
climbed  into  the  slender  boughs  above.  The  only 
accessible  side  of  the  nest  was  shaded,  so  a  short-timed 
exposure  on  the  tripod  was  necessary.  I  managed  to 
stick  the  spike  of  each  tripod-leg  into  a  slender  branch 
or  crotch,  and,  by  keeping  very  still  at  the  critical 
moments,  fairly  holding  my  breath,  secured  some  good 
pictures.  There  were  three  well-grown  young  in  the 
nest,  and  one  picture  shows  an  open  bill  projecting  out, 
begging  for  food.  After  succeeding  there,  I  placed 
two  of  the  young  on  a  branch  in  a  more  favorable 
position,  and  Ned  and  I  both  added  pictures  of  young 
Orchard  Orioles  to  our  series. 

All  our  other  species  which  are  classed  in  this  group 
of  birds  have  some  claim  to  be  called  Blackbirds. 
Even  the  prattling  Bobolink  often  gets  the  name  of 
"Skunk  Blackbird"  because  the  male  is  black  and 
white.  This  interesting  bird  is  a  regular  "Jekyll  and 
Hyde"  in  leading  a  double  life.  As  Bobolinks  they 
arrive  in  early  May  and  settle  down  in  the  meadows 
and  clover  fields  for  about  ten  weeks  of  love,  song  and 

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CROW   RELATIVES 

familiarity  with  men.  But  before  July  is  out,  presto, 
they  are  "Reedbirds,"  plain  in  dress,  shy  roamers  in 
flocks,  which  levy  toll  upon  the  growing  grain. 

It  is  no  easy  task  to  find  the  Bobolinks'  nest,  hidden 
away  snugly  in  the  long  grass.  The  garrulous  male 
gives  warning  of  our  approach  and  the  female  sneaks 
from  the  nest,  so  that  in  vain  do  we  try  to  flush  her. 
But  Ned  and  I  have  learned  a  trick  or  two.  We  get  a 
rope  a  hundred  feet  or  more  in  length,  and  in  the 
evening  or  on  a  rainy  day,  having  secured  permission  of 
the  owner  of  the  land,  course  systematically  over  the 
fields  the  distance  of  the  length  of  the  rope  apart, 
dragging  it  between  us  and  watching  its  progress. 
Suddenly  up  goes  a  brown  bird,  perhaps  midway  along 
the  rope  where  it  has  just  swished  over  the  grass. 
Keeping  our  eyes  on  the  spot  where  it  started,  we  drop 
the  rope  and  hurry  there,  and,  on  hands  and  knees, 
presently  find  the  frail  nest  of  dry  grass  with  its  five  or 
six  handsomely  marked  eggs,  or  an  equal  number  of 
thriving  young  for  which  the  meadow  has  produced 
abundance  of  insect  or  other  foods. 

Another  of  these  quasi-blackbirds  is  that  parasite, 
the  enemy  of  the  small  birds,  generally  known  as  Cow- 
bird,  but  it  is  also  called  Cow  Bunting,  or  even  Cow 
Blackbird.  The  latter  name  it  deserves  well  enough, 
for  the  male  is  shiny  black,  all  but  its  brown  head  and 
neck.  The  "cow"  part  of  its  various  names  it  has 
earned  by  its  fondness  for  the  company  of  cattle.  I 
have  seen  them  on  the  backs  of  the  cattle  like  big  flies 

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CROW   RELATIVES 

— especially  out  West  where  there  are  plenty  of  both 
cattle  and  Cowbirds.  They  are  good  friends  to  the 
cattle  because  they  pull  out  grubs  or  maggots  from  the 
animals'  hides  or  sores,  and  thus  perform  a  useful 
service.  We  can  only  wish  that  they  were  as  helpful 
to  their  nearer  relatives  among  the  birds.  But  the 
existence  of  every  Cowbird  proclaims  the  death  of  a 
brood  of  useful  destroyers  of  insects  or  weed-seeds, 
which  have  perished  because  of  the  strong  and  greedy 
parasite.  The  female  Cowbird  lays  one  egg  or  more 
in  the  nests  of  these  other  birds,  and  in  the  struggle  for 
existence  the  young  Cowbird  always  wins.  In  other 
chapters  where  figure  the  victimized  species,  I  shall 
show  how  the  parasite  works  and  fares. 

The  Red-winged  or  Swamp  Blackbird  is  a  familiar 
and  abundant  bird  over  most  of  the  United  States. 
Few  fresh  water  marshes  there  are  where  we  may  not 
hear  the  "conk-a-ree"  song  or  the  harsh  alarm  note  of 
this  conspicuous  bird.  But  common  as  it  is,  we  must 
go  where  it  lives  in  order  to  see  it.  A  lady  of  my 
acquaintance  thought  that  the  Red-wings  had  decreased 
sadly  in  her  vicinity;  she  had  not  seen  one  all  that 
season.  But  that  very  day  in  walking  to  her  home  I  had 
seen  dozens  of  them  in  the  meadows  along  the  road. 

They  begin  nesting  by  the  middle  of  May,  and  the 
nests  are  easy  enough  to  find  if  one  cares  to  don  the 
long  rubber  boots  and  go  wading.  The  Red-wings, 
both  the  black  male  with  his  flashy  scarlet  epaulettes 
his  somber-hued  streaky  wife,  will  be  hovering 


"Settle  down  in  the  meadows"  (p.  150). 


Five  young  Bobolinks  in  nest.     "Found  by  dragging  a  rope"  (p.  151). 


Tree  Sparrow  eating  hay  seed  thrown  on  the  snow.     "The  happy  little  fellow" 
(p.  165). 


Pine  Grosbeak  about  to  drink.     "Our   .     .     .   constant  visitors"  (p.  161). 


CROW   RELATIVES 

excitedly  overhead  or  scolding  from  perches  near  by. 
There  are  so  many  pairs  to  the  average  boggy  swamp 
that  it  is  no  hard  matter  to  find  nests,  either  built  in 
the  grass  on  top  of  tussocks,  or  suspended  among  reeds 
or  rushes.  It  is  said  to  be  hard  to  photograph  the 
female  on  the  nest,  but  if  one  have  a  reflecting  camera 
and  wade  near  their  homes,  he  is  reasonably  sure  of 
good  camera  shooting,  taking  the  birds  both  in  flight 
and  after  they  alight.  They  are  a  hardy  species  and 
now  and  then  appear  even  in  midwinter  as  far  north  as 
southern  New  England. 

The  Crow  Blackbird  is  another  common  and  widely 
known  blackbird,  though  scientists  have  surrounded 
our  old  friend  with  some  mystery  by  carving  him  up 
into  Bronzed  and  Purple  Grackle.  If  the  specimen 
has  the  purple  color  of  the  neck  and  head  extend  down 
into  the  bronze  color  of  the  back,  it  is  a  Purple  Grackle, 
but  if  the  bronze  is  without  purplish  streaks,  it  is  the 
Bronzed  Grackle.  One  cannot,  however,  tell  these 
races  apart  without  shooting  the  birds,  and  for  all  but 
technical  purpose  the  plain  Crow  Blackbird  is  good 
enough  for  most  of  us.  With  us  it  generally  nests  in 
gardens  in  towns,  especially  in  evergreen  trees,  such  as 
the  Norway  spruce.  By  the  middle  of  May  they  have 
built  their  nests,  which  are  much  like  those  of  the 
Robin,  being  lined  with  mud.  There  is  quite  a  colony 
on  the  street  where  I  live  and  every  year  the  handsome 
birds  are  seen  on  our  trees  and  lawns.  Unfortunately 
they  sometimes  pull  up  sprouting  corn,  and  this  season 

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CROW    RELATIVES 

in  June  some  farmer  whom  they  had  annoyed  put  out 
poisoned  grain  in  his  field.  The  next  day  there  were 
heaps  of  dead  grackles  under  the  trees  where  they 
nested  and  the  young  all  starved.  Not  a  single  one 
was  henceforth  to  be  seen  in  the  locality.  It  was  a 
mean  thing  to  do,  for  not  only  did  it  kill  blackbirds, 
but  probably  various  other  more  useful  birds. 

Out  in  the  wilder  parts  of  the  country  I  have  found 
the  grackles  nesting  in  hollow  trees.  In  one  instance, 
near  my  home,  I  found  a  nest  in  a  swamp.  I  was  hiding 
to  photograph  a  Green  Heron  on  its  nest,  and  watched 
a  male  grackle  spread  his  wings  and  tail  and  "squeak" 
his  love  song  in  a  tree  above  me.  Presently  I  noticed 
the  female  low  down  sneak  along  through  the  alder 
bushes  and  go  on  to  a  nest  in  the  low  fork  of  a  very 
small  one  which  grew  out  of  water.  This  nest  was 
built  only  about  a  foot  above  the  surface — a  most 
unusual  location.  Yet  the  grackles  resort  all  the  time 
to  this  swamp  to  feed,  and  I  was  not  surprised  that  one 
pair  were  sensible  enough  to  break  away  from  old  fogy 
custom  and  locate  by  their  base  of  supplies. 

The  flocking  of  the  grackles  in  August  and  early 
autumn  is  interesting.  As  I  sit  on  my  piazza  I  hear  a 
rushing  sound  as  of  an  approaching  tempest,  and  with 
a  chorus  of  harsh  grating  notes,  a  compact  body  of  the 
black  fellows  almost  darken  the  sky  as  they  whirl  past 
just  over  the  treetops.  Sometimes  they  alight  and 
then  our  ears  are  regaled  with  a  symphony  as  from  a 
lot  of  unoiled  axles  of  wheelbarrows. 

154 


CROW   RELATIVES 

Our  remaining  species  is  the  Rusty  Blackbird. 
This  is  a  little  smaller  than  the  last,  about  the  size  of 
the  Redwings.  The  male  is  all  black,  which  makes  his 
white  eyes  conspicuous,  while  his  mate  is  much  less 
showy,  of  a  dull  rusty  grayish  brown.  They  are  with 
us  in  April,  on  their  way  north,  and  then  again  rather 
late  in  the  fall.  None  are  known  to  nest  further  south 
than  northern  New  England,  but  I  have  been  at  the 
Magdalen  Islands  in  June  when  the  young  were  just 
leaving  their  nests  in  the  spruce  swamps.  These 
looked  like  Robins*  nests  and  were  built  on  the  lower 
branches  of  the  spruces.  What  a  fuss  the  old  birds 
made  over  my  presence,  not  to  lionize,  but  to  berate! 
I  took  my  revenge  by  setting  up  my  camera  near  a 
small  spruce  and  focussed  on  the  top  where  the  female 
Rusty  was  inclined  to  alight.  The  next  time  she  did 
it  I  pulled  the  thread  and  caught  her  in  the  act,  her 
open  mouth  emitting  a  flood  of  saucy  expletives.  This 
I  shall  use  against  her  in  court  if  the  occasion  ever 
requires  it. 


155 


CHAPTER  X 

A    PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

(Finches,  Sparrows,  etc.) 

THIS  family  of  bird  species,  called  by  naturalists 
Fringillida3,  or  finch-like  birds,  comes  the 
nearest  to  "flooring"  Ned  of  anything  in  bird 
study.  Not  only  is  it  the  largest  group  among  our 
North  American  birds,  including  about  one-seventh 
of  all  our  species,  but  many  of  these  species  look  so 
much  alike,  especially  as  one  usually  sees  them  afield 
— skulking  in  grass  or  thick  foliage,  and  shy  in  the 
bargain — that  it  is  a  very  difficult  matter  to  identify 
them.  Try  it,  for  instance,  in  the  autumn,  along  the 
country  road,  where  swarms  of  little  brownish  birds 
are  constantly  flitting  on  ahead  of  you  and  diving  out 
of  sight  into  the  grass  or  bushes.  They  are  sparrows, 
you  say.  Yes,  but  what  kind?  I  can  think  of  at  least 
a  dozen  species  which  may  be  represented  in  that  one 
flock.  After  studying  them  more  or  less  all  my  life,  I 
have  to  confess  that  very,  very  many  times  I  am  unable 
to  identify  these  restless,  nervous,  timid,  nondescript, 
elusive  little  rascals  in  the  fleeting  glimpse  at  them 
which  they  allow.  I  tell  Ned  not  to  get  discouraged, 

156 


A   PUZZLE    IN   BIRDS 

but  just  to  do  the  best  he  can,  and  he  will  surely  know 
a  good  deal  about  them,  as,  indeed,  he  already  does. 

Not  only  are  there  sparrows,  but  grosbeaks,  finches, 
buntings  and  various  others.  They  are  the  great 
seed-eating  group  of  birds,  with  strong  cone-shaped 
bills,  just  adapted  to  splitting  or  crujhing  many  kinds 
of  seeds,  or  extracting  them  from  various  sorts  of  pro- 
tecting covers.  I  was  trying  to  think  out  some  easy 
way  to  help  Ned  memorize  and  classify  this  difficult 
family,  and  I  finally  hit  upon  one  which  makes  it  very 
clear  to  him.  Taking  the  species  in  the  order  in 
which  they  are  ranked  in  the  Handbooks,  we  may 
think  of  them  in  three  groups.  The  main  group  is  in 
the  middle,  the  sparrows,  or  sparrow-like  finches — 
brownish-streaked  birds,  which  mainly  stay  on  or  near 
the  ground.  Before  these  are  put  the  hardy  finches 
other  than  sparrows,  which  are  found  with  us  in  winter, 
many  of  them  coming  from  the  far  north — such  as  the 
Pine  Grosbeak,  Crossbills,  Redpolls,  Pine  Siskin, 
Goldfinch,  Snow  Bunting,  Purple  Finch.  After  the 
sparrow  group  we  find  given  the  more  southerly 
finches — the  Chewink,  Rose-breasted  Grosbeak,  Car- 
dinal, Indigo-bird  and  several  distinctly  Southern 
species.  This  certainly  simplifies  the  general  plan 
and  also  helps  one  to  remember  the  species,  each  of 
which  it  is  then  "up  to"  the  bird  student  to  learn.  In 
telling  of  them  in  this  chapter  we  will  follow  that 
order. 

About  twice  in  every  decade,  I  should  think,  there 
157 


A  PUZZLE   IN   BIRDS 

comes  a  winter  when  various  birds  from  the  far  North 
visit  us  in  good  numbers,  and  notably  the  species  in 
this  first  group  of  the  finch  family.  Deep  snow  which 
covers  up  the  tops  of  the  weeds  with  their  load  of  seeds, 
the  failure  of  the  spruces  and  other  evergreens  to  bear 
cones,  or  both  these  events  in  conjunction,  drive  them 
south  to  us.  When  I  was  a  boy,  the  winter  of  1882-3 
first  introduced  me  to  these  Northern  visitors.  I  was 
out  after  them  at  every  possible  opportunity  and  what 
an  exciting  time  I  did  have! 

As  early  as  October  the  Pine  Siskins  arrived.  They 
are  closely  related  to  the  Goldfinch,  but  are  easy  to 
tell  from  them  because  they  are  streaked  all  over.  I 
was  out  hunting  partridge  and  woodcock,  when,  in  an 
opening  in  the  woods,  I  saw  a  very  large  flock  of  these 
birds,  then  new  to  me,  alight  on  an  isolated  tree,  fairly 
covering  the  branches.  Trembling  with  excitement,  I 
fired  into  the  midst  of  them  and  am  ashamed  to  tell 
now  the  number  I  killed.  I  have  never  seen  so  many 
together  since,  but  have  met  them  at  various  times,  usu- 
ally along  roadsides,  or  in  woods  where  there  were 
birches  or  hemlocks.  They  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of 
the  birch  buds.  Years  later,  in  northern  Nova  Scotia, 
I  found  them  in  June  on  their  nesting  grounds.  In  the 
shade  trees  along  the  streets  of  Pictou,  I  saw  them  and 
heard  them  singing  prettily — Northern  Canary  Birds, 
one  might  call  them,  for  they  and  the  Goldfinch  are 
closely  related  to  the  Canary. 

In  November  the  beautiful  little  Redpolls  put  in 
158 


A  PUZZLE   IN   BIRDS 

their  appearance  and  in  flocks  were  wandering  around 
the  stubble  fields,  feeding  on  the  seeds  of  the  various 
weeds.  At  a  distance  they  look  much  like  the  Pine 
Siskin,  or  even  the  Goldfinch  in  winter  plumage.  But 
a  closer  view  shows  a  pretty  crimson  patch  on  top  of 
the  head,  and  now  and  then  there  is  one,  an  adult  male, 
with  a  crimson  wash  over  the  breast.  I  remember 
that  I  took  a  very  great  fancy  to  them  and  all  that 
winter  I  loved  to  watch  the  Redpolls.  They  are  hardy 
birds,  breeding  in  Greenland  and  the  lands  nearest 
the  North  Pole. 

But  I  was  equally  fond  of  the  grosbeaks  and  cross- 
bills. The  occasion  when  I  first  saw  these  species 
stands  out  in  my  memory  among  the  great  events  of 
my  life.  I  was  walking  home  one  afternoon  that  same 
bird-eventful  winter,  in  December,  along  a  street  in 
Jamaica  Plain,  a  suburb  of  Boston,  when  I  saw  a  flock 
of  a  dozen  birds,  the  size  of  Robins,  eating  the  buds 
of  a  maple  tree  in  a  garden,  just  over  the  sidewalk. 
Hurrying  on  toward  them,  I  saw  that  they  were  dark 
gray  in  color,  with  yellow  on  the  heads  and  backs, 
except  two,  which  were  of  a  beautiful  rosy  hue.  They 
were  Pine  Grosbeaks,  the  rosy  ones  being  adult  males. 
Though  it  seems  that,  on  the  whole,  I  never  enjoyed 
life  more  than  I  do  now,  at  the  same  time  I  realize  that 
familiarity  has  probably  made  me  incapable  of  ever 
experiencing  again  the  intense,  overpowering  excite- 
ment and  delight  which  I  experienced  in  that  first  sight 
of  the  Pine  Grosbeak,  hardy  denizen  of  the  North, 

159 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

whose  very  presence  pictured  before  my  inflamed  imag- 
ination the  boreal  solitudes  in  their  silent,  icy  grandeur, 
as  did  just  once  the  rare  Evening  Grosbeak. 

And  the  crossbills !  I  was  out  sleigh  riding  in  Brook- 
line  and  was  driving  on  a  road  that  led  through  a 
wooded  estate,  when  I  noticed  a  group  of  birds  on  a 
limb  of  a  pine  tree  which  extended  out  low  over  the 
road.  I  stopped  the  horse  almost  under  the  strange 
birds.  Some  were  dull  red  or  pink,  some  greenish,  and 
a  few  of  each  sort  had  white  bars  on  their  wings.  They 
were  a  mixed  flock  of  White-winged  and  Red  Cross- 
bills, birds  the  points  of  whose  upper  and  lower  mandi- 
bles of  the  bill  cross  one  another.  It  would  appear, 
with  this  seemingly  awkward  arrangement,  as  though 
they  could  not  eat;  yet  here  they  were  skillfully  ex- 
tracting the  seeds  from  the  pine  cones,  their  favorite 
diet.  For  five  minutes  or  so  I  fairly  devoured  those 
rare  birds  with  my  eager  eyes. 

The  rest  of  that  winter  I  revelled  in  the  Northern 
birds,  but  it  was  not  till  several  years  afterward  that  I 
saw  any  more,  so  irregular  are  their  occurrences.  How- 
ever, they  did  reach  us  occasionally,  and  some  years  I 
held  tryst  with  the  crossbills  and  siskins  in  summer 
up  in  their  Northern  homes  in  the  Maritime  Provinces 
of  Canada.  One  season  they  stayed  with  us  very  late. 
Pine  Siskins  visited  the  larch  trees  in  my  garden  in 
May,  and  on  the  seventh  of  May  I  was  amazed,  while 
looking  for  birds  in  a  pine  grove,  to  have  a  flock  of 
White-winged  Crossbills  fly  up  from  the  ground  and 

160 


A   PUZZLE    IN   BIRDS 

then  stand  and  look  at  me  from  the  lowest  branches  of 
the  pines.  Usually  all  these  Northern  birds  have  dis- 
appeared by  the  last  of  March  or  first  of  April. 

In  the  winter  of  1899-1900  both  the  crossbills  were 
abundant,  especially  the  usually  rarer  White-winged 
bird.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  a  flock  of  them 
almost  daily  on  my  lawn,  picking  up  maple  seed  or 
other  food.  They  were  fairly  tame,  yet  never  so  much 
so  as  a  pair  of  White-wings  that  I  found  on  the  top  .of 
Bird  Rock,  far  out  at  sea,  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence. 
These  were  so  tame  that  I  actually  caught  them  as  they 
fed  on  some  oats  which  I  put  out  on  the  grass  for  them. 
They  were  very  much  emaciated,  so  I  put  them  in  a 
cage  to  have  a  good  meal,  but  there  they  acted  so 
frightened  that  we  let  them  go  and  they  returned  at 
once  to  the  oats.  While  they  munched  away  at  a  pile 
of  these,  like  little  horses,  I  set  up  a  camera  on  the 
tripod  within  two  feet  of  them  and  photographed  them 
without  alarming  them  in  the  least. 

Early  one  morning  in  January,  1907,  Ned  came 
rushing  in  to  inform  me  that  a  flock  of  Pine  Grosbeaks 
were  right  by  the  doorstep.  Sure  enough,  there  were 
half  a  dozen  of  them,  feeding  in  the  path  where  the 
heavy  snowfall  had  been  shovelled  off.  They  seemed 
to  be  picking  up  little  sticks  and  biting  off  the  ends,  but 
I  soon  found  that  these  were  the  winged  seeds  of  our 
ash  and  maple  trees,  from  which  they  were  extracting 
the  kernels.  From  that  time  on  till  the  middle  of 
March,  they  were  our  almost  constant  visitors.  They 

161 


A   PUZZLE    IN   BIRDS 

were  so  tame  that  it  was  quite  easy  to  photograph  them 
with  the  reflecting  camera.  I  met  one  little  boy  in 
town  carrying  around  a  paper  bag  of  salt,  trying  to 
catch  grosbeaks  by  putting  salt  on  their  tails,  which  he 
had  been  told  was  the  proper  method !  Yet  for  all  their 
familiarity  they  were  timid  in  a  way,  for  at  any  sudden 
noise,  as  of  a  wagon  or  a  train,  the  flock  would  unitedly 
spring  up  with  a  twitter  and  a  whir  of  wings  and  dart 
off,  not  to  return  for  an  hour  or  two.  Sometimes  there 
would  be  three  dozen  grosbeaks  on  our  lawn  at  the 
same  time,  mostly  gray  birds,  though  once  I  saw  seven 
rosy  males. 

When  they  finally  disappeared  it  really  seemed 
lonely  without  their  intimate  companionship,  but  kind 
Nature  provided  a  most  appropriate  substitute  in  an 
equally  large  flock  of  Purple  Finches,  which  stayed 
with  us  from  late  March  pretty  well  through  April. 
The  carmine-hued  males  were,  in  this  case,  about  equal 
in  number  to  the  somber  females.  After  a  time  the 
flocks,  which  I  often  met  in  the  woods  as  well  as  gar- 
dens, broke  up  into  pairs,  and  presently  they  were  nest- 
ing in  scattered  cedars  or  other  evergreens  in  pastures 
or  gardens.  They  are  quite  hardy  birds  and  are  some- 
times found  as  far  north  as  New  England  in  the  dead 
of  winter,  though  they  are  not  as  northerly  as  the 
species  we  have  been  describing. 

With  them  we  may  well  associate  the  beautiful  Gold- 
finch, sometimes,  but  improperly,  called  the  Wild 
Canary.  They  are  interesting  birds,  original  in  their 

162 


Female  Rose-breasted  Grosbeak  incubating.     "Let  me  work  on  her  within  a  yard ' 
(p.  174). 


Pair  of  White-winged  Crossbills.     "Eating  oats  like  little  horses"  (p.  161). 


Young  Field  Sparrows  in  nest.     "On  the  ground"  (p.  169). 


Young  Goldfinches,  ready  to  leave  nest.     "In  a  willow  thicket"  (p.  163). 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

ways  and  no  slaves  to  fashion.  The  male  in  summer, 
with  his  resplendent  yellow  and  black  plumage,  is  gay 
enough,  yet  he  lays  all  this  grandeur  aside  for  the 
winter  and  goes  garbed  like  his  plainer  wife.  Hardy 
birds,  they  often  flock  about  us  through  our  coldest 
winters,  and  well  might  they  be,  we  should  think, 
among  our  earliest  breeders.  Yet  they  spend  the 
spring  and  summer  in  play  and  at  the  last  possible 
moment,  as  though  it  was  a  stupid  task  from  which 
they  shrank,  they  finally  set  to  work  to  build  nests  and 
rear  babies.  The  eggs  are  usually  laid  in  a  soft,  dainty 
nest  on  a  bush  or  sapling  in  a  swamp  or  by  the  roadside 
in  late  July  or  early  August.  The  young  are  not  awing 
till  well  along  in  August  and  it  is  often  pitiful,  when 
September  frosts  come,  to  find  the  callow  fledglings  in 
the  garden,  barely  able  to  flutter  from  their  nest, 
chilled  and  piping  plaintively.  Ned  called  my  atten- 
tion to  some  in  this  predicament  on  a  very  cold  day,  the 
fifteenth  of  September.  That  same  year  I  photo- 
graphed a  brood  of  them  in  a  willow  thicket  beside 
the  railroad  track  about  the  twentieth  of  August,  and 
I  tried  hard  to  snap  the  parents  feeding  them,  but 
when  the  camera  was  near  the  nest  they  would  not 
approach,  no  matter  how  long  I  waited. 

It  would  be  a  great  omission  not  to  speak  of  the 
Snow  Bunting,  that  hardy  boreal  bird  which  has  well 
earned  also  the  name  Snowflake,  from  the  whiteness  of 
its  plumage.  I  have  seen  them  by  hundreds  on  the 
wintry  seacoast,  on  beach,  marsh  or  sand  dunes.  I  wish 

163 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

they  were  as  common  inland  where  I  now  live,  yet 
they  are  there  no  strangers  to  Ned  and  me,  whirring 
over  the  snow  and  the  projecting  stubble  in  open  places. 
One  very  wintry  day  they  afforded  us  a  beautiful 
spectacle.  We  were  out  sleigh  riding,  on  a  road  which 
followed  the  open  summit  of  quite  a  high  hill.  A  snow 
squall  came  up,  driving  fiercely  in  our  faces.  Pres- 
ently we  saw  what  at  first  I  thought  was  a  cloud  of  the 
light,  newly  fallen  snow  stirred  up  by  a  squall  of  wind, 
blowing  toward  us  across  a  weedy  field.  Instead  it 
proved  to  be  a  large  flock  of  Snow  Buntings.  Their 
advance  guard  were  alighting  to  eat  the  seeds  of  the 
weeds,  while  those  in  the  rear  were  continually  flying 
over  those  ahead  of  them  and  themselves  becoming 
leaders.  Thus  the  flock  rolled  over  and  over  as  it  were, 
like  a  great  white  wheel,  ever  advancing. 

Associating  with  the  Snow  Bunting  we  are  liable 
occasionally  to  meet  the  Lapland  Longspur,  a  bird  of 
about  the  same  size,  but  darker  colored,  the  males 
black  on  the  breast  and  throat.  They  are  much  rarer 
than  the  other,  enough  so  to  make  it  a  red-letter  day 
when  one  is  identified.  How  delighted  I  was  when  I 
saw  my  first  Lapland  Longspur!  I  was  driving  in  a 
sleigh  in  February,  along  a  country  road,  when  I  saw 
three  birds  ahead  of  me  feeding  in  the  road.  Two 
were  clearly  Snow  Buntings,  as  their  white  wings 
showed.  The  other  was  unfamiliar.  I  drove  up 
within  a  few  feet  of  them  and  stopped.  The  stranger 
had  buffy  cheeks  and  some  black  on  the  breast.  It  was 

164 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

not  a  Horned  Lark  and  I  instantly  recognized  the  Lap- 
land Longspur,  for  which  I  had  so  long  looked  in  vain. 

And  now  for  the  Sparrows.  The  Tree  Sparrow,  or 
Arctic  Chippy  and  the  slate-colored  Junco,  or  Snow- 
bird, are  the  only  native  sparrows  which  are  common 
in  winter.  We  do  not  count  that  foreign  pest,  the 
English  Sparrow,  which  does  not  deserve  to  be  con- 
sidered as  a  bird,  but  rather  as  a  feathered  rat,  a 
pestiferous  mongoose  to  destroy  bird  life  and  drive  out 
our  beloved  native  birds.  The  pretty  little  warbled 
song  which  comes  from  the  weedy  patch  or  the  line  of 
shrubs  or  stubble  along  the  fence  on  a  bitter  cold 
February  morning  is  the  good  cheer  of  the  happy  little 
fellow  from  the  far  north,  the  Tree  Sparrow,  and  it  is 
almost  the  only  real  song  that  we  are  likely  to  hear  at 
this  season,  though  the  Chickadee  has  some  pleasant 
notes,  and  the  Junco  will  begin  in  March  to  practice 
its  simple  trill.  The  Tree  Sparrows  are  a  bit  timid, 
but  I  have  had  them  come  up  on  the  window-sill 
to  be  fed  and  photographed.  Ordinarily,  though,  they 
will  not  venture  quite  so  much,  but  we  can  scatter  hay- 
seed or  small  grain  on  the  frozen  snow  in  the  garden 
and  they  will  greatly  appreciate  it.  Associated  with 
them  we  shall  often  see  the  Junco,  which  is  even  shier. 

A  few  of  that  commonest  of  our  sparrows,  the  Song 
Sparrow,  linger  in  sheltered  places  through  the  long 
cold  winter,  and  the  whole  tribe  of  them  are  back  in 
March.  Early  in  the  month  we  first  hear  their  familiar 
and  beautiful  song  ringing  out  from  the  shrubbery 

165 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

along  the  roadsides,  or  in  the  garden.  One  can  dis- 
tinguish them  by  their  heavily  marked  breast  with  a 
conspicuous  brown  spot  in  the  middle. 

Soon  after  the  middle  of  March  we  are  likely  to  notice 
on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  or  along  retired  wooded 
roads,  a  bird  of  deep  rich  broWn  color.  It  is  the  Fox 
Sparrow,  the  largest  and  handsomest  of  the  sparrows. 
It  is  fond  of  scratching  among  the  dead  leaves,  and  is 
a  great  musician,  though,  unfortunately,  it  seldom  sings 
until  it  approaches  its  Northern  breeding  grounds,  for  it 
never  remains  with  us.  I  have  twice  found  its  targe, 
well-built  nest  on  the  Magdalen  Islands  and  have  heard 
there  many  a  time  its  wonderful  song. 

Probably  the  next  to  arrive  will  be  the  Swamp  Spar- 
row, late  in  March.  It  frequents  bushy  swamps  or 
meadows  interspersed  with  brush,  and,  though  it 
resembles  the  Song  Sparrow,  can  be  readily  distin- 
guished from  it  by  its  reddish  head  and  unmarked 
ashy  breast.  The  song  is  a  loud,  simple  trill,  not  unlike 
that  of  the  Junco.  The  rare  Lincoln's  Sparrow,  related 
closely  to  this  and  the  Song  Sparrow,  is  also  possible 
reward  for  careful  scrutiny. 

Late  in  March  or  early  in  April  comes  the  Field 
Sparrow,  and  about  the  middle  of  April  the  nearly 
related  Chipping  Sparrow.  These  and  the  Tree  Spar- 
row are  a  good  deal  alike — slender,  long-tailed  little 
fellows,  with  brownish-red  crowns.  The  best  way  tc 
distinguish  them  is  that  the  Tree  Sparrow  has  a  con- 
spicuous dark  spot  on  the  middle  of  the  breast,  the 

166 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

Field  Sparrow  a  plain  breast  and  reddish  bill,  the 
Chippy  a  distinct  white  stripe  over  each  eye  and  a  gray 
rump,  with  the  whitest  breast  of  them  all. 

About  the  same  time  as  the  Field  Sparrow,  or  soon 
after  it,  comes  the  Vesper  Sparrow,  or  Grass  Finch,  with 
its  simple  but  pretty  song.  This  is  the  species  with  the 
bay-colored  patch  on  the  bend  of  the  wing  and  the 
white  outer  tail  feathers.  This  last  is  especially  char- 
acteristic of  the  Junco,  but  one  cannot  confuse  that 
slate-colored  bird  with  the  brownish  Vesper,  and  at  any 
rate  the  former  disappears  on  its  northward  migration 
soon  after  the  other  begins  to  arrive. 

Somewhat  similar  in  haunts  and  habits  is  the  Savanna 
Sparrow,  which  also  arrives  in  early  April.  They  are 
found  in  dry  open  fields,  but  also  in  meadows  or  salt 
marshes.  They  have  streaked  breasts,  like  the  Song 
Sparrow,  but  are  smaller  birds.  In  most  inland  locali- 
ties they  are  not  common,  but  in  many  seacoast  regions, 
and  notably  along  the  Northern  coast,  any  sparrow 
which  one  may  see  is  more  than  likely  to  be  a  Savanna. 
They  haunt  the  grassy  wind-swept  headlands  or  even 
the  sand  dunes. 

On  the  coast  we  also  may  meet  the  Sharp-tailed  and 
Seaside  Sparrows  on  the  salt  marshes,  skulking  in  the 
long  grass,  and  in  late  fall  and  winter  the  rather  rare 
Ipswich  Sparrow.  I  have  found  a  number  of  the  latter 
in  dry  open  places  not  far  back  from  the  sea,  or  on 
islands. 

But  we  have  not  yet  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the 
167 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

migration  inland.  There  is  a  very  queer  little  fellow 
called  the  Grasshopper  Sparrow,  so  named  because  its 
funny  weak  little  song  sounds  more  like  this  insect's 
attempt  than  a  bird's.  It  is  a  small  bird,  dull-colored, 
with  plain  ashy-colored  under-parts  and  is  very  secre- 
tive, one  of  the  hardest  of  birds  to  locate  and  observe. 
It  frequents  dry  fields,  but  might  be  common  all  about 
one  without  its  presence  being  detected,  unless  one 
noticed  the  faint,  locust-like  song.  A  somewhat  similar 
bird,  but  rarer,  is  the  Henslow's  Sparrow,  which,  how- 
ever, prefers  moist  grass  land,  notably  springy  hillsides 
where  the  bush  known  as  shrubby  cinquefoil  abounds. 

Last  of  all,  in  May,  come  those  beautiful  sparrow 
migrants,  the  White-throated  and  White-crowned  Spar- 
rows, both  of  which  nest  well  to  the  north.  The  latter 
is  rather  rare,  more's  the  pity,  for  it  is  a  very  striking 
bird,  with  its  conspicuously  white  crown-patch.  It  is 
only  once  in  a  great  while  that  I  am  able  to  see  one. 
The  White-throat  is  much  better  known.  The  male 
has  a  pronounced  white  bar  on  each  side  of  the  head, 
and  sometimes  may  be  mistaken  for  the  other.  But 
when  one  really  meets  the  White-crown,  he  will  know 
it.  "Pee,  pee,  peabody,  peabody,"  sings  the  White- 
throat  in  long-drawn,  high-pitched  piping,  and  thus 
gains  the  name  of  Peabody-bird.  The  male  sings  his 
peabody  song  vociferously  in  Maine  and  Canada,  but 
I  have  heard  it  all  too  seldom  further  south. 

There,  now,  we  have  gone  through  writh  every  one  of 
our  numerous  Sparrows  which  we  are  at  all  likely  to 

168 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

meet.  Do  you  suppose  now  you  can  go  out  and 
identify  them?  Remember  there  are  the  confusing 
plumages  of  the  young,  which  help  to  make  the  muddle 
all  the  worse.  No,  you  must  study  hard  on  them,  be 
patient,  and  get  to  know  them  one  at  a  time.  With  a 
little  intelligent  care,  and  referring  to  the  descriptive 
books,  you  will  be  surprised  how  quickly  the  common 
birds  can  be  tolerably  well  learned.  So  there  is  no 
need  of  being  discouraged.  If  we  could  learn  every- 
thing easily  at  once,  there  would  be  far  less  fun  in 
studying  birds.  We  need  some  difficulties  to  arouse 
the  spirit  of  true  sport. 

When  it  comes  nesting  time  the  nests  of  most  of  the 
sparrows  are  to  be  sought  and  found  on  the  ground, 
and  usually  in  grass.  The  Chippy,  however,  builds  in 
a  tree  or  bush  near  the  house,  though  once  I  found  its 
nest  on  the  ground  in  an  orchard.  The  Song  Sparrow 
sometimes  gets  lofty  ideas  and  builds  in  a  bush  even  as 
high  as  one's  head,  but  the  vast  majority  of  nests  are  on 
the  ground  in  grass  or  beside  a  bush.  This  is  the  nest 
with  four  or  five  darkly  blotched  eggs  which  one  so 
often  finds  in  the  pasture  or  by  the  roadside  by  almost 
stepping  on  it  and  having  the  sitting  bird  pop  off  at 
one's  very  feet. 

In  wading  the  meadow,  I  expect  to  start  the  Swamp 
Sparrow  from  its  nest  in  the  tussock.  The  Field  Spar- 
row likes  the  clump  of  weeds  in  pasture  or  orchard  for 
the  temporary  home,  and  it  will  be  either  on  the  ground 
or  within  a  foot  of  it  among  the  stems  of  the  weeds  or 

169 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

in  a  tiny  sprout.  The  eggs  are  smaller  and  more  finely 
marked  than  those  of  the  Song  Sparrow,  and  thus  can 
be  distinguished. 

It  is  not  so  easy  to  find  the  Vesper  Sparrow's  nest, 
though  it  is  built  usually  where  the  grass  is  scant,  for 
the  bird  sees  an  intruder  and  usually  flies  off  before  he 
comes  dangerously  near. 

The  Savanna  Sparrow,  though  it  often  builds  in 
similar  situations,  is  more  tame  and  less  shrewd,  and 
I  have  found  their  nests  by  dozens  through  flushing 
them,  in  regions  where  they  are  common,  as  on  open 
headlands  by  the  sea.  But  the  Grasshopper  Sparrow 
—how  it  can  hide  its  treasures!  I  have  found  but  one 
of  their  nests  and  it  was  on  this  wise.  I  was  crossing 
a  dry,  sandy  field,  with  very  sparse  grass,  when  out 
fluttered  a  small  sparrow  right  from  my  very  feet.  Of 
course  I  knew  there  was  a  nest,  though  none  was  in 
sight.  Down  I  dropped  on  hands  and  knees,  laying 
my  handkerchief  on  the  grass  about  where  the  bird 
was  first  seen.  I  felt  like  a  fool  when,  after  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  spent  in  examining  every  inch  of  ground,  I 
could  not  for  the  life  of  me  find  the  nest.  The  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  withdraw,  mark  the  spot  and  try 
again.  So  in  half  an  hour  I  came  back  and  this  time 
I  saw  exactly  where  the  bird  flushed.  But  even  then 
it  was  a  couple  of  minutes  before  I  detected  the  tiny 
tunnel,  overhung  by  dry  grass  which  led  in  under  a 
small  tussock.  There,  clear  out  of  sight,  was  the 
simple  nest  of  grass  with  its  five  white,  sparsely  marked, 

170 


Female  Rose-breasted  Grosbeak  incubating. 
(P-  174) 


Pair  of  White-winged  Crossbills.     "Eating  oats  like  little  horses"  (p.  161). 


Nest  of  Chippy.     "On  my  porch  in  the  woodbine"  (p.  171). 


Chipping  Sparrows.     "Fed  the  little  fellows  in  turn"  (p.  172). 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

handsome  eggs,  very  different  from  those  of  our  other 
sparrows. 

Sparrow's  eggs  are  usually  so  much  alike  that  in 
most  cases  it  is  necessary  to  identify  them  by  clearly 
seeing  their  owners,  and  often  this  is  a  very  difficult 
task.  I  have  spent  hours  waiting  or  searching  about, 
trying  to  make  the  secretive,  skulking  bird  show  herself. 
Even  if  the  pesky  thing  does  come  out  for  an  instant, 
it  is  more  than  likely  that  it  will  be  gone  again  before 
the  glass  can  be  brought  to  bear. 

Almost  everyone  who  lives  in  the  country  has  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  familiar  Chippy  nest  on  the 
premises,  in  perfect  confidence  of  good  treatment. 
Chippy  nests  in  rny  orchard,  on  any  bush  or  low  tree 
in  the  garden,  or  even  on  my  piazza  porch  in  the  wood- 
bine. There  I  took  her  picture  while  she  gazed  at  me 
beseechingly,  hoping  that  I  had  not  now  become  her 
foe.  This  last  spring  a  pair  built  their  nest  on  the 
trellis  right  at  the  entrance  of  our  front  door,  but  there 
was  so  much  passing  that  the  little  bird  became  fright- 
ened and  the  eggs  were  not  laid  there. 

Chippy  is  a  good  subject  to  photograph  in  the  act  of 
feeding  her  young.  Some  sparrows  are  too  shy  and 
nervous  to  brave  the  camera,  but  she  will  do  it.  A 
pair  had  a  nest  in  our  mulberry  tree,  and  on  the  day 
that  the  four  little  fellows  left  the  nest  I  caught  two  of 
them  and  made  them  sit  on  a  stick  in  front  of  the 
camera  which  was  all  ready  for  business.  At  first 
mother  Chippy  was  a  little  afraid,  but  she  soon  plucked 

171 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

up  courage  and  at  frequent  intervals  came  with  an 
insect  and  fed  the  little  fellows  in  turn.  In  a  short 
time  I  had  a  dozen  as  good  feeding  pictures  as  I  could 
want. 

Leaving  the  Sparrows,  now,  to  be  studied  afield,  I 
must  tell  a  little  about  that  other  group  of  birds  in  this 
finch  family  which  we  referred  to  at  the  beginning  of 
the  chapter  as  the  more  southerly  fellows  which  are 
large  of  beak.  The  next  one  after  the  sparrows,  as 
numbered  in  the  American  Ornithologists'  Union 
Check  List,  is  the  handsome  and  common  bird  variously 
known  as  Towhee  or  Chewrink,  and  I  have  also  heard 
it  called  Swamp  Robin.  This  is  the  black  and  white 
fellow,  with  brown  markings,  who  plays  hide  and  seek 
with  us  in  the  bushy  pasture,  the  scrub  land,  or  along 
the  roadside.  He  is  bound  to  see  who  you  are,  but 
does  not  intend  that  you  shall  see  him  very  much, 
though  he  calls  out  a  pert  inquiring  "tow-hee,"  or 
"chewink,"  as  he  seems  to  different  observers  to  say. 
But  when  he  thinks  there  is  no  one  around  to  bother 
him,  he  stands  up  proudly  on  the  top  of  a  bare  tree 
that  towers  above  the  thicket  of  scrub  and  sings  a 
happy  and  more  pretentious  song.  The  nest  is  hidden 
away  in  a  brush  heap  or  under  a  small  buch  and  about 
the  only  way  I  know  of  finding  it  is  to  flush  from  it  the 
brownish  female,  who  will  soon  roturn  with  her  black- 
gowned  husband  and  set  up  a  great  outcry.  Once  I 
was  shown  a  nest  out  in  the  open  in  the  hollow  of  a 
grassy  bank  in  a  pasture.  The  female  was  in  charge 

172 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

of  the  five  pretty  eggs  and  allowed  me  to  come  quite 
near,  but  she  crouched  down  so  deep  into  the  hollow 
that  a  picture  showed  nothing  but  her  bill. 

Then  there  is  the  Rose-breasted  Grosbeak.  The 
male  is  a  beautiful  black  and  white  bird  with  a  rose- 
colored  spot  on  his  breast  and  under  each  wing,  and  is 
a  sweet  singer,  with  clear,  liquid  notes.  But  the  female 
is  a  plain  brownish  little  lady,  looking  like  an  enlarged 
sparrow.  They  are  moderately  common  in  many  local- 
ities, and  it  would  be  well  if  they  were  more  so,  for 
they  have  a  habit  which  will  commend  them  to  all  who 
know  of  it.  If  they  are  seen  in  the  garden,  do  not  as- 
sume that  they  are  working  mischief ;  though  sometimes 
they  eat  buds,  they  are  mostly  insectivorous  and  are 
among  the  few  birds  that  will  eat  potato  bugs.  I  have 
known  them  to  go  day  after  day  to  the  potato  patch  to 
feed  upon  these  vermin  as  long  as  they  lasted.  I  tell 
Ned  that  they  are  more  useful  in  that  line  than  he,  for 
he  is  not  fond  of  "picking  potato  bugs,"  though  his 
mother  tells  that  when  he  was  a  baby  she  found  him 
one  day  munching  a  horrid  black  squash  bug.  But  in 
time  he  proved  not  to  be  insectivorous  after  all ! 

This  grosbeak  builds  a  frail  nest  of  small  sticks  and 
rootlets  in  a  low  tree  or  bush  in  a  swamp  or  thicket, 
usually  from  five  to  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  Both 
birds  incubate  and  they  are  not  very  shy,  only  the  nest 
is  rather  hard,  usually,  to  get  at  to  photograph,  unless 
one  raise  the  camera  on  stilts  and  focus,  say,  from  a 
step-ladder.  In  one  case  a  nest  was  out  on  a  horizontal 

173 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

bough  and  I  bent  it  down  and  tied  it  so  that  the  nest 
was  on  a  level  with  my  camera  on  the  fully  extended 
tripod.  When  I  came,  sometimes  the  male  was  on, 
but  more  often  the  female.  He  would  not  let  me  walk 
up  with  the  camera,  but  she  allowed  me  to  do  so  and 
even  to  work  on  her  within  a  yard,  if  I  moved  slowly 
and  kept  very  quiet. 

Still  another  interesting  and  striking  species  is  the 
Indigo-bird,  or  Indigo  Bunting.  It  is  a  small  species, 
of  sparrow  size,  the  male  of  which  is  of  a  rich  dark 
blue  color  all  over,  very  gaudy  and  conspicuous.  One 
would  not  suppose  that  the  dull  brownish  female  could 
be  any  near  relative  of  his.  They  are  fond  of  bushy 
pastures  and  the  neat  nest  is  suspended  in  a  thicket  or 
brier  patch.  One  that  I  found  was  beautifully  lined 
with  black  horse-hair.  Another  was  discovered  through 
the  anxiety  of  the  male  that  I  should  not  find  it.  I  was 
passing  through  some  scrub  and  brier  thicket  one  hot 
day  in  June,  looking  for  nests  to  photograph.  Sud- 
denly this  male  Indigo-bird  appeared  on  a  poplar  tree 
near  by  and  began  to  advise  me  in  his  language  that 
the  best  thing  I  could  do  was  to  get  right  straight  out. 
Instead  of  doing  this,  I  began  to  look  about  all  the 
more  sharply  and  soon  I  found  his  nest,  nearly  com- 
pleted, close  to  where  I  had  just  passed.  Later  it  held 
three  bluish-white  eggs.  I  photographed  them,  but 
could  not  catch  either  of  the  birds  with  the  lens,  though 
I  hid  the  camera  quite  well  in  a  clump  of  bushes  near 
by,  covering  it  with  foliage. 

174 


A   PUZZLE   IN   BIRDS 

In  the  Middle  States,  up  as  far  as  New  York  City, 
we  may  see  the  brilliantly  colored  male  Cardinal  Gros- 
beak and  his  more  somber-clad  mate.  Their  beautiful 
songs  are  a  delight  about  the  garden,  and  their  nest 
may  be  found  in  the  adjoining  shrubbery.  The  further 
south  we  go  the  more  plenty  they  become.  During 
my  trips  to  the  South  I  have  greatly  enjoyed  the 
Cardinal. 

Besides  the  Cardinal,  there  are  other  distinctly 
Southern  species  in  this  family  of  which  it  is  beyond 
my  present  purpose  to  write.  But  instead,  seeing  that 
I  mentioned  above  the  American  Ornithologists'  Union, 
and  also  the  difficulty  of  studying  such  birds  as  this 
finch  family,  I  want  to  advise  every  one  of  my  bird- 
loving  readers  to  become  an  associate  member  of  this 
organization,  if  he  or  she  has  not  already  done  so. 
Though  it  is  the  greatest  ornithological  society  of 
America,  and  includes  in  its  membership  the  leading 
scientists,  it  is  intended  just  as  much  for  beginners  in 
bird  study,  to  increase  and  cultivate  the  friendly  interest 
in  birds  which  has  now  become  so  widespread.  Its 
"Associate"  class  of  members  numbers  many  hundreds, 
all  over  the  United  States  and  Canada,  including  boys 
and  girls,  and  ladies  as  well  as  men.  My  young  friend 
Ned  is  an  enthusiastic  "Associate,"  and  it  helps  him 
very  much.  Through  it  he  knows  many  other  bird- 
lovers.  Its  large  quarterly  magazine,  The  Auk,  the 
leading  bird  publication  in  America,  which  everyone 
belonging  to  it  receives,  is  very  instructive  and  enables 

175 


A   PUZZLE    IN   BIRDS 

him  to  keep  up  with  whatever  is  being  done  by  other 
students.  Now  and  then  he  goes  to  its  "Annual  Con- 
gress," which  is  a  most  delightful  social  occasion. 
There  he  gets  acquainted  with  many  other  young 
ornithologists,  and  also  with  the  great  scientists,  who 
are  glad  to  see  all  who  are  beginning  to  take  interest 
in  birds,  no  matter  how  little  they  know  about  the 
subject  at  present.  It  costs  three  dollars  a  year  as 
membership  fee,  which  includes  subscription  for  The 
Auk,  and  I  hope  that  many  young  bird  lovers,  or  others, 
after  reading  this  will  write  to  the  Treasurer  of  the 
A.  O.  IL,  Dr.  Jonathan  Dwight,  134  West  71st  Street, 
New  York  City.  He  will  send  you  any  desired  informa- 
tion. The  more  membership  fees  the  Union  has,  the 
better  magazine  they  can  publish,  with  more  illustra- 
tions, and  the  more  they  can  do  for  bird  study  and  bird 
protection. 

If  you  could  only  have  a  talk  with  Ned,  I  am  sure  he 
would  soon  persuade  you  to  join  and  make  you  feel 
that  because  you  love  birds  you  are  just  exactly  the 
kind  of  a  person  that  they  want  on  the  roll  of  member- 
ship. 

Both  he  and  I  want  also  to  say  a  good  word  for  the 
Audubon  Society,  whose  special  work  is  to  interest  in 
birds  those  who  have  not  thought  much  about  them, 
to  train  the  growing  generation  of  children  and  youth 
to  love  and  befriend  the  birds,  and  to  secure  money, 
laws  and  public  sentiment  for  their  protection.  In  each 
State  there  is  a  local  Audubon  Society,  all  of  which 

176 


A   PUZZLE    IN    BIRDS 

are  incorporated  as  "The  National  Association  of 
Audubon  Societies."  For  a  few  cents  annually  any- 
one can  be  a  member,  and  for  a  dollar  a  year  more 
have  that  delightful  little  illustrated  magazine,  Bird- 
Lore,  the  organ  of  the  Association,  which  every  beginner 
in  bird  study  ought  to  have  and  all  bird  lovers  as 
well.  To  secure  further  funds  for  the  educational  and 
humanitarian  crusade,  for  enforcement  of  protective 
laws,  for  guarding  breeding-colonies  of  birds  and  the 
like,  there  are  various  degrees  of  honorary  membership, 
attainable  through  certain  money  payments.  Inquiries 
addressed  to  the  headquarters  of  the  Association,  the 
office  of  its  President,  Mr.  William  Dutcher,  141  Broad- 
way, New  York  City,  will  secure  all  information  needed. 
Those  who  take  delight  in  our  wild  birds  and  are  in- 
terested in  their  protection  will  both  get  and  give  a 
great  deal  by  being  associated  in  these  organized  ways 
with  other  bird  lovers,  and  "the  sport  of  bird  study" 
will  thus  be  found  far  more  fascinating  than  by  "going 
it  alone." 


177 


CHAPTER  XI 

OUR   PRICELESS   SWALLOWS   AND   SWIFTS 

NED  came  into  my  study  one  summer  day,  when  1 
was  trying  to  write  a  bird  article,  just  as  I  made 
a  slap  at  a  tormenting  housefly  and  almost 
upset  my  inkstand.  "Your  intention  was  good,"  he 
remarked,  "but  you  aren't  as  graceful  as  the  swallows 
yet  in  your  fly-killing.  But  how  did  so  many  flies  get 
in  here?"  "Oh,  someone  left  the  screen  door  open,"  I 
replied;  "that  is  one  reason,  and,  since  you  have  men- 
tioned swallows,  you  remind  me  of  another,  and  that 
is  that  we  haven't  swallows  enough  to  catch  all  these 
flies.  If  they  were  as  common  as  they  used  to  be,  I 
don't  think  there  would  be  so  many  flies  to  bother  us." 
"Did  they  use  to  be  very  plenty?"  inquired  Ned.  "Yes," 
I  said,  "according  to  all  accounts  the  familiar  kinds 
were  quite  abundant  up  to  about  twenty  years  ago,  when 
the  hateful  English  Sparrow  drove  them  away  by 
fighting  them  or  taking  their  nests.  I  remember  well 
when  I  was  small  what  lots  of  swallows  there  were 
around  Boston,  where  I  lived,  far  more  than  there  are 
now.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  weren't 
any  flies  then,  but  there  was  a  big  colony  of  Barn  and 
Eave  Swallows  on  our  next  door  neighbor's  barn,  and 

178 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

with  such  a  swarm  catching  flies  all  day  about  our 
place  you  couldn't  make  me  believe  that  there  were  not 
less  flies  than  there  would  have  been  without  them." 

"Don't  they  catch  other  insects  beside  flies?"  asked 
Ned,  becoming  evidently  interested.  "Yes,"  I  told 
him,  "they  are  great  on  mosquitoes  and  about  every 
sort  of  small  flying  insect.  The  Government  ornithol- 
ogists of  the  Biological  Survey  say  that  in  the  South 
swallows  feed  upon  the  dreaded  boll  weevil,  and  they 
are  getting  up  a  crusade  to  try  to  protect  the  swallows 
and  introduce  them  to  regions  from  which  they  have  been 
driven  out.  One  good  method  is  to  kill  off  the  English 
Sparrows  around  their  colonies,  and  also  to  put  up 
suitable  boxes  for  the  kinds  that  use  them.  Of  course 
boys  ought  not  to  disturb  them,  and  the  owners  of  barns 
where  they  build  should  welcome  them,  even  though 
they  make  some  dirt  to  clean  up.  They  are  well  worth 
any  trouble  they  may  cause." 

After  this  little  talk  about  swallows,  Ned  helped  me 
drive  out  the  flies  so  that  there  would  be  none  of  them 
on  my  bird  article,  and  I  went  to  work  again  in  peace. 
Besides  helping  me  in  this  swallow-like  occupation  of 
chasing  flies,  Ned  promised  to  go  with  me  that  after- 
noon and  help  me  photograph  a  nice  Barn  Swallows' 
nest  with  four  nearly  fledged  young,  which  were  now 
about  to  leave. 

It  was  a  pretty  hard  proposition,  Ned  thought,  when 
he  saw  the  nest,  on  the  projecting  end  of  a  timber  inside 
a  barn,  away  up  under  the  roof  where  it  was  quite  darlj 

179 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

and  almost  inaccessible.  However,  I  thought  there  was 
a  way.  We  got  a  long  ladder,  and  I  climbed  up  on  a 
beam  which  went  rather  near  the  nest.  I  pulled  the 
ladder  up  after  me  and  placed  it  across  two  beams. 
Then  Ned  handed  me  up  some  boards  and  I  made  a 
little  platform  on  the  ladder  to  stand  the  camera  and 
tripod  upon.  The  camera  set  up  on  the  tripod  could 
now  stand  close  to  the  nest,  but  it  was  too  dark  even 
to  focus.  However,  I  was  ready  for  that  difficulty.  I 
had  brought  a  good-sized  mirror,  and  now  I  asked  Ned 
to  stand  just  outside  the  barn  door  in  the  strong  sun- 
light and  throw  up  the  reflected  light  upon  the  nest. 
It  was  easy  now  to  focus.  Then  I  held  up  a  smaller 
mirror  which  I  carried  in  my  pocket  and  had  Ned 
throw  the  light  on  my  mirror,  and  I  in  turn  threw  it 
down  into  the  nest  upon  the  backs  of  the  young  birds, 
and  thus  I  made  some  successful  quite  short  exposures. 
Then  I  brought  down  a  young  swallow,  posed  and 
photographed  it  outdoors,  put  it  back  into  the  nest, 
and  the  work  was  done,  and  well  done — thanks  to  my 
valuable  assistant. 

Probably  the  Barn  Swrallow  is  the  best  known  of  the 
six  species  found  in  our  Northern  and  Eastern  districts 
— the  bird  with  the  forked  tail,  reddish  breast  and 
shiny  blue-black  upper  parts.  They  build  nests  of 
mud  and  straw  on  beams  inside  barns  and  sheds.  The 
settlement  of  North  America  by  the  white  man  has 
changed  the  habits  of  many  of  the  birds,  notably  the 
swallows,  and  among  them  this  particular  kind.  Its 
180 


Young  Barn  Swallows.     "Threw  light  down  into  the  nest"  (p.  180). 


Young  Barn  Swallow.     "Brought  down  a  young  Swallow"  (p.  180). 


Eave  Swallows.     "Snap  the  birds  as  they  fly  to  their  nests"  (p.  182). 


Fledgling  Eave  Swallow.     "Just  learning  to  fly"  (p.  182). 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

original  preference  was  for  rocky  caves  as  a  nesting  site. 
Just  once  in  my  life  have  I  found  a  nest  thus  situated. 
It  was  in  a  cave  on  lonely  Seal  Island,  which  lies  twenty 
miles  off  the  rugged  coast  of  Maine,  in  Penobscot  Bay. 

Our  Barn  Swallow  is  such  a  happy,  friendly  bird  that 
nearly  everyone  who  knows  it  loves  and  admires  it. 
We  enjoy  its  merry  twitterings  as  it  darts  about  the 
barn,  and  are  pleased  at  the  grace  with  which  this 
greyhound  of  the  air  doubles  and  turns.  When  we  go 
out  for  a  drive,  it  is  a  pretty  sight  to  see  them  circle 
about  us,  catching  the  insects  which  our  advance  starts 
from  the  grass  or  weeds  along  the  country  roadside. 

Perhaps  next  in  familiarity  comes  the  Eave  or  Cliff 
Swallow.  This  is  the  other  kind  which  frequents  the 
barns.  It  builds  bottle-shaped  nests  of  mud  pellets 
up  under  the  eaves,  which  are  often  clustered  thickly 
together  and  partly  built  one  upon  the  side  of  the  other. 
In  the  primitive  days  these  colonies  of  nests  were  built 
on  cliffs,  and  in  some  parts  of  the  West  they  are  built 
there  even  yet.  So  the  bird  is  the  genuine  Cliff  Swallow 
out  there,  and  the  Eave  Swallow  with  us.  Originally 
there  were  no  Cliff  Swallows  where  there  were  no  cliffs, 
but  with  the  country's  settlement  they  spread  nearly 
everywhere,  and  the  dates  are  on  record  when  they 
first  appeared  in  various  localities.  This  bird  looks 
quite  different  from  the  Barn  SwallowT,  and  can  be  told 
by  its  nearly  square  tail,  the  pale  reddish  patch  at  the 
base  of  the  bill  and  on  the  upper  rump,  and  the  light 
under-parts. 

181 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

I  have  photographed  the  nests  by  putting  up  a  ladder 
under  the  eaves,  driving  my  screw  bolt  into  the  side  of 
the  barn,  screwing  the  small  camera  to  it  and  making 
long-timed  exposures,  since  the  nests  are  in  the  shade. 
To  get  the  adult  birds  from  life,  I  await  quietly  beneath 
the  nests  on  some  low  barn,  with  my  reflecting  camera 
in  hand,  and  snap  the  birds  as  they  fly  to  their  nests. 
When  the  young  are  just  beginning  to  fly  they  are  quite 
tame  and  one  can  often  walk  up  close  to  them  with  the 
camera. 

The  nests  of  many  swallows  get  very  lousy,  like  the 
Phcebes',  and  it  was  owing  to  this  that  I  once  had  a 
rather  severe  punishment  for  meddling  with  the  Eave 
Swallows  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  wanted  some  swallows' 
eggs,  and,  after  climbing  up  to  some  nests  by  means  of 
a  ladder,  was  trying  to  get  my  fingers  into  the  narrow 
entrance  of  one  of  them,  when  down  came  the  nest  and 
smashed  all  over  my  bare  head.  In  a  moment  I  was 
swarming  with  bird  lice  from  head  to  foot — and  what 
a  time  I  did  have!  It  was  days  before  I  got  rid  of  them 
all,  and  I  was  sore  in  every  member  from  their  bites 
and  my  scratching.  Fortunately  it  was  vacation  time, 
and  I  was  able  to  keep  aloof  from  most  of  mankind. 

Then  there  is  the  Tree  Swallow,  the  kind  with  the 
pure  white  breast  and  glossy  steel-blue  back.  How 
they  used  to  swarm  on  the  marshes  and  on  the  telegraph 
wires,  when  I  was  a  boy,  in  August  when  they  were 
getting  ready  to  migrate !  But  now  their  numbers  seem 
pitifully  small  in  comparison.  Originally  they  nested 
182 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

in  cavities  of  trees.  Then,  in  well  settled  localities, 
they  changed  to  the  bird  boxes  which  kindly  disposed 
people  put  up  for  them.  But  the  English  Sparrow 
came  and  drove  them  out,  and  now  they  have  gone 
back  to  the  hollow  trees  again. 

Out  in  North  Dakota,  I  have  seen  pairs  of  them 
flying  in  and  out  of  hollows  in  low  trees  along  the 
snores  of  rivers  and  lakes,  and  I  was  wishing  that  I 
had  taken  the  time  to  photograph  them.  So  it  was 
pleasant  to  me  to  find  a  colony  of  them  near  my  home 
nesting  in  stubs  in  the  overflowed  woodland  where  I 
have  told  of  the  woodpeckers  nesting  so  abundantly. 
Some  of  the  stubs  which  they  had  chosen  stood  out  in 
pretty  deep  water  and  the  holes  were  rather  high  up. 
I  was  standing  on  the  "corduroy"  roadway  across  the 
swamp  and  wondering  how  in  the  world  I  was  going  to 
work  it  to  get  some  pictures,  when  I  saw  a  Tree  Swallow 
fly  into  a  hole  near  the  top  of  a  low  stub  only  about  five 
feet  from  the  water,  the  stub  being  only  a  yard  out  from 
the  road.  I  waited  two  weeks  or  more  till  the  young 
were  hatched,  and  then  with  my  reflecting  camera  and 
a  lot  of  plate  holders,  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  nest.  The 
male  bird  sat  on  a  low  branch  of  another  stub,  quite 
near  the  nest  hole,  and  let  me  walk  quietly  up  and  snap 
him.  He  flitted  to  another  stub  and  I  got  some  more 
pictures  of  him.  Meanwhile  the  female  flew  to  the 
nest  with  a  fly,  so  I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  roadway 
partly  behind  a  bush,  with  the  camera  on  my  knees, 
aimed  at  the  nest.  For  a  few  minutes  the  birds  flew 
183 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

about  twittering,  excited  by  my  presence.  But  I  sat 
still,  and  presently  the  male  ventured.  I  snapped  him 
as  he  approached  the  stub,  and  he  flew  back  without 
entering.  But  in  a  moment  he  alighted  at  the  entrance 
with  a  fly,  and,  not  heeding  the  sound  of  the  shutter, 
entered,  fed  the  young,  and  emerged  carrying  a  sac  of 
excrement.  By  this  time  I  had  changed  the  plate  and 
caught  him  as  he  left.  Then'  the  female  came,  and 
they  were  constantly  going  and  coming,  giving  me  all 
the  snapshots  I  wanted.  Later,  when  the  five  young 
were  about  ready  to  leave,  I  took  out  two  of  them  and 
posed  them,  and  then  put  them  carefully  back  into  the 
hole. 

One  day  I  came  out  from  the  woods  on  the  adjoining 
hill,  hundreds  of  feet  above  this  morass,  overlooking 
the  whole  tract.  It  was  a  lovely  panorama  of  high 
rolling  hills,  with  two  lakes  nestling  in  the  valley,  and, 
aided  by  my  strong  field  glass,  I  actually  could  see  the 
old  woodpecker  hole  in  the  swallow  stub,  and  see  the 
swallows  enter  and  leave  the  cavity  as  they  fed  their 
young. 

Still  another  familiar  species  is  the  Bank  Swallow, 
the  small  brownish  fellow  that  digs  out  burrows  in 
gravel  banks  near  ponds  or  streams.  They  are  quite 
common,  and  a  number  of  banks  or  cuts  in  my  neigh- 
borhood each  boast  of  a  little  colony  of  a  dozen  or  more 
pairs.  The  birds  arrive  toward  the  end  of  April,  and 
presently  go  to  work  digging  their  burrows,  and  then 
make  trips  to  poultry  yards  to  pick  up  feathers  with 

184 


, 


Tree     Swallow      (male)     at     nest.          Tree  Swallow.     "Snapped  him  as  he 
"  Alighted  at  the  entrance  with  approached  the  stub"  (p.  184). 

a  fly"  (p.  184). 


Young  Tree  Swallows.     "About  ready  to  leave"  (p,  184). 


Purple  Martins  near  their  nest  in  hole  of  stub.     " Took  a  picture  of  a  pair"  (p.  187). 


Bank  Swallow  at  nest — hole  in  gravel  bank.     "Secured  a  snapshot"  (p.  185). 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

which  to  make  soft  lining  for  the  nests,  that  the  very 
fragile  pure-white  eggs  which  are  to  be  deposited  may 
not  be  broken. 

One  day  I  visited  a  colony  situated  in  a  gravel  cut, 
just  off  a  main  road.  The  burrows  were  not  deep,  and 
from  one  of  them  I  took  out  a  parent  bird  which  was 
incubating,  having  previously  set  up  my  camera 
focused  on  a  hole,  and,  placing  it  at  the  entrance, 
secured  a  snapshot  before  it  escaped.  Meanwhile  I 
had  allowed  the  horse  to  graze  by  the  roadside  un- 
hitched, watched  over  by  Ned.  Just  ahead  there  was 
a  rise  of  ground  and  a  turn  in  the  road.  I  had  not 
thought  about  the  possibility  of  an  automobile  coming 
along,  but,  as  luck  would  have  it,  one  came  just  then, 
going  at  very  moderate  speed.  Before  I  could  get  back 
the  horse  broke  away  from  Ned,  shied  into  the  fence, 
and  then  dashed  off  with  the  shafts,  leaving  the  rest  of 
the  vehicle  hung  up.  The  animal  only  ran  to  the  next 
farmyard,  where  it  stopped  and  was  caught.  The 
driver  of  the  machine  was  a  gentleman.  He  stopped, 
proffered  assistance,  gave  his  number,  and  so  on. 
Though  I  was  out  a  buggy,  I  did  not  sue  him,  as  he 
had  been  so  polite,  and  I  was  at  fault  for  leaving  the 
horse  as  I  did.  But  the  country  roads  are  very  narrow, 
and  these  engines  put  residents  and  visitors  in  the 
country  in  jeopardy  of  their  lives.  It  is  not  only  ill- 
mannered,  but  lawless  and  criminal  for  anyone  to 
invade  country  roads  with  an  automobile  and  not  drive 
with  the  utmost  care,  stop  when  he  is  asked  by  the 

185 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

driver  of  a  horse,  and  in  every  way  be  considerate,  in 
view  of  the  peril  to  life  and  limb  which  he  is  creating. 
Machines  are  impracticable  in  the  country  for  at  least 
half  the  year,  and  people  living  there  are  compelled 
to  keep  horses.  Were  all  autoists  gentlemen  like  this 
one  just  mentioned,  people  in  the  country  would  not 
be  put  to  as  much  inconvenience  and  danger  as  at 
present  they  suffer,  many,  especially  women  and  chil- 
dren, being  afraid  to  drive  or  ride  out,  and  thus  are 
compelled  to  stay  at  home. 

There  is  another  swallow,  similar  in  appearance  and 
habits  to  the  Bank  Swallow,  which  is  not  so  well  known 
— the  Rough-winged  Swallow.  They  are  not  often 
seen  north  of  the  Middle  States  and  are  common  only 
in  the  West.  At  a  distance  they  are  distinguishable 
from  the  Bank  Swallow  mainly  by  being  a  little  larger 
and  having  uniformly  dark  under-parts.  Frequently 
they  nest  on  the  timbers  under  bridges,  or  in  crevices 
of  abutments,  although  they  also  nest  like  the  Bank 
Swallow.  Even  Audubon  did  not  distinguish  them 
from  Bank  Swallows  until  he  happened  to  shoot  some 
specimens.  So  it  will  be  well  to  watch  for  them  among 
the  supposed  Bank  Swallows,  and  some  day  we  may 
add  this  rather  rare  bird  to  our  list. 

Some  people  call  the  Tree  Swallow  the  Martin,  but 
the  genuine  Martin  is  the  Purple  Martin,  a  larger 
species,  the  male  of  which  is  entirely  of  a  dark  glossy 
steel-blue  color,  the  female  duller,  and  paler  below. 
They  are  beautiful  and  useful  birds,  but  unfortunately 

186 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

are  very  tender,  and  late  cold  storms,  combined  with 
the  attacks  of  the  English  Sparrow,  have  almost  ex- 
terminated them  in  the  New  England  States.  In 
populated  regions  at  present  they  generally  breed  in 
bird-boxes  which  people  are  glad  to  prepare  for  them. 
Sometimes,  after  prolonged  cold  rain  storms  in  June, 
whole  colonies  of  Martins,  old  and  young  alike,  have 
been  found  dead  in  their  nesting  boxes.  I  never  see 
them  now  except  as  migrants.  Their  original  manner 
of  nesting  was  in  hollow  trees,  like  the  Tree  Swallow. 
Out  in  the  Turtle  Mountains  of  North  Dakota  I  once 
found  them  breeding  quite  plentifully  in  the  poplar 
timber,  and  took  a  picture  of  a  pair  of  them  as  they 
alighted  on  the  branch  of  a  stub  near  their  nest  cavity, 
an  old  woodpecker  hole. 

We  have  just  one  more  bird  to  tell  of  in  this  chapter, 
the  one  that  people  persist  in  calling  the  Chimney 
Swallow.  In  general  appearance  and  habits  it  is 
swallow-like,  but  in  structure  it  is  quite  different,  and 
belongs  to  the  family  called  Swifts.  So  let  us  get 
used  to  calling  it  by  its  right  name,  Chimney  Swift, 
and  be  accurate. 

Its  feet  are  so  weak  and  cramped  that  it  does  not 
perch,  but  clings  to  a  perpendicular  surface,  such  as 
the  inside  of  a  chimney  or  a  hollow  tree,  propping  itself 
from  behind  with  its  peculiar  tail,  each  feather  of  which 
ends  in  a  sharp  spine  or  spike.  But  in  flight  it  is  master 
of  the  situation,  and  well  deserves  its  university  degree 
of  Swift.  Almost  ceaselessly,  oftentimes  by  night  as 

187 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

well  as  day,  it  is  awing,  tireless  in  pursuit  of  flying 
insects.  It  has  been  estimated  that  each  swift  flies  a 
thousand  miles  every  day,  yet  it  never  seems  to  weary. 

Under  primitive  conditions,  before  the  settlement  of 
the  country,  the  swift  resorted  to  hollow  trees  for  rest, 
shelter  and  nesting.  But  now  it  seldom  occupies  any 
other  retreat  than  a  chimney.  In  the  autumn,  when 
flocking  preparatory  for  its  migration  south,  I  have 
seen  assemblages  of  them  at  dusk  drop  into  some 
selected  chimney  in  a  steady  stream,  until  thousands 
must  have  been  clinging  to  every  available  inch  of 
brick  inside. 

They  return  to  us  about  the  last  of  April,  but  are 
late  in  nesting,  for  ordinarily  the  eggs  are  not  laid  till 
July.  During  June  they  may  be  seen  darting  over  the 
dead  tops  of  trees,  hardly  pausing  an  instant  in  their 
flight  as  they  grasp  and  wrench  off  a  twig.  Having 
secured  one,  the  bird  takes  it  down  the  chimney  and 
sticks  it  to  the  brick  wall  with  gummy  saliva,  which 
she  ejects.  This  is  continued  till  the  curious  basket- 
like  structure  has  been  completed,  and  then  four  or 
five  elongated  pure  white  eggs  are  laid.  Many  acci- 
dents occur.  Rains  wash  down  the  nest,  or  the  young 
fall  down  into  the  fireplace  or  pipe  below,  where  they 
are  likely  to  be  left  to  starve.  The  brood  of  swifts 
make  considerable  racket,  and  the  descent  of  the  old 
birds  into  the  chimney  causes  a  rumbling  sound  like 
distant  thunder.  They  drop  a  good  deal  of  dirt,  too, 
down  the  chimney.  But  they  amply  pay  for  their 

133 


Young  Chimney  Swifts  by  their  nest.     "Clinging 
(p.  189). 


like  so  many  bats' 


Young  Chimney  Swift,     "How  tl 


race  themselves"  (p.  189). 


On  a  sapling  in  the  woods"  (p.  194). 


Young  Cedar  Waxwings.     "Assumed  pretty  positions"  (p.  19G). 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

misdemeanors  in  the  multitude  of  flies  and  mosquitoes 
which  they  destroy. 

It  is  a  hard  matter  to  photograph  a  nest,  owing  to 
the  narrowness  of  the  chimneys.  But  I  was  fortunate 
in  happening  upon  a  very  peculiar  nesting  site.  A 
pair  of  swifts  chose  to  build  in  a  barn.  Up  near  the 
top  of  the  hayloft,  near  an  open  window,  for  the  past 
three  years  they  have  stuck  their  curious  nest  to  the 
plain  board  wall  inside.  The  first  year  they  raised  but 
one  youngster  and  the  next  season  four.  The  third 
season  they  built  the  nest,  but  for  some  reason  did  not 
lay  the  eggs  there. 

I  photographed  this  nest  in  the  same  way  that  I 
photographed  the  young  Barn  Swallows,  with  the  help 
of  Ned,  the  ladder  and  the  mirrors.  The  second  year 
I  paid  my  visit  when  the  young  had  just  crawled  from 
the  nest  and  were  clinging  to  the  boards  near  it  like  so 
many  bats.  One  flew  off,  but  I  photographed  the 
other  three,  and  then  put  one  back  in  the  nest  and  took 
a  picture  of  it  there.  After  that  I  carried  one  outdoors 
in  the  light  and  took  some  pictures  showing  in  detail 
how  they  cling  and  brace  themselves  with  the  tail. 

A  pair  of  them  build  every  year  in  one  of  my  chimneys, 
and  this  year,  for  some  reason,  the  eggs  did  not  hatch. 
Ned  wanted  to  get  them  as  curiosities,  so  he  made  a 
small  scoop  net  at  the  end  of  his  butterfly  net  pole  and 
succeeded  in  landing  the  nest  and  two  out  of  four  of 
the  eggs. 

A  well-known  naturalist  once  told  me  that  it  seemed 
189 


OUR   PRICELESS    SWALLOWS 

to  him  that  the  swift  in  flight  used  its  wings  alternately. 
It  would  be  an  interesting  bit  of  sport  and  scientific 
research  combined  to  secure  a  series  of  flight  pictures 
of  the  swift  and  try  to  find  this  out.  I  have  thought 
that  sometimes  I  would  squat  on  the  ridge  pole  by  some 
favorably  located  chimney  to  which  swifts  resorted 
and  see  if  I  could  get  some  pictures.  Who  else  will 
try  it? 


190 


CHAPTER  XII 

FOUR   NEIGHBORS   DIVERSE 

(Tanagers,  Waxwings,  Shrikes,  Vireos) 

NED  came  in  one  day  in  May,  when  the  migration 
was  at  its  height,  and  reported  that  he  had  seen 
a  flock  of  male  Scarlet  Tanagers,  six  of  them 
together,  along  a  roadside,  and  asked  if  it  was  not  a 
rare  thing  to  find  so  many  at  once.  I  told  him  that  it 
was  rather  unusual,  but  that  I  had  occasionally  seen 
such  an  occurrence  at  this  time  of  year.  They  winter 
in  Central  and  South  America,  and  the  males  start  first 
for  the  North,  as  is  the  case  with  many  other  birds, 
trusting  to  the  females  to  come  along  later  and  help 
in  setting  up  housekeeping.  To  see  so  many  of  these 
black  and  scarlet  birds  at  once  would  make  one  think 
that  they  were  more  abundant  than  they  are.  But 
most  people  think  it  quite  an  event  when  they  see  even 
one.  Though  they  are  not  rare,  they  are  retiring  birds 
and  keep  mostly  to  the  woods,  so  the  average  person 
hardly  ever  sees  them. 

I  went  on  to  tell  Ned  that,  if  we  lived  in  tropical 
America,  the  brilliant  tanagers  would  not  seem  so 
remarkable  to  us,  for  there  they  have  great  numbers 

191 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

of  them.  Indeed  there  are  so  many  kinds  that  instead 
of  telling  about  tanagers,  waxwings,  shrikes  and  vireos 
all  in  one  chapter  to  even  things  up,  as  we  are  doing 
now,  we  might  have  to  make  a  whole  book  about 
the  tanagers  alone,  for,  actually,  there  are  said  to  be 
three  hundred  and  fifty  species  of  tanager  in  Central 
and  South  America,  a  good  many  more  kinds  of  birds 
than  we  are  telling  about  in  this  whole  book.  Of  all 
these  tanagers,  only  five  reach  the  southern  border  of 
the  United  States,  and  only  one,  the  Scarlet  Tanager, 
is  found,  except  as  a  straggler,  in  our  northeastern 
districts. 

The  four  bird  families  named  in  the  heading  of  this 
chapter  follow  each  other  in  this  order  in  the  classifica- 
tion, except  that  we  have  taken  out  the  swallows  to 
treat  by  themselves — yet  it  is  curious  and  remarkable 
how  diverse  these  neighbors  are.  Not  only  are  they 
entirely  distinct  in  form,  habits  and  coloration,  but, 
taken  as  families,  there  are  other  interesting  points  of 
difference.  For  instance,  the  tanagers,  as  we  have 
said,  are  a  tremendously  large  group  and  are  confined 
to  the  Western  Hemisphere;  but  of  the  waxwings, 
which  are  American  also,  there  are  only  two  known 
species  that  certainly  belong  to  this  group.  The 
shrikes,  on  the  other  hand,  belong  largely  to  the  Eastern 
Hemisphere,  for  out  of  two  hundred  kinds  America 
can  boast  of  but  two.  The  vireos  are  peculiarly 
American,  and  there  are  fifty  species,  but  of  these  we 
only  see  six  in  northern  and  eastern  North  America. 

192 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

The  female  Scarlet  Tanager  is  not  a  scarlet  tanager 
at  all,  but  a  dull  greenish-olive  one,  and  very  few  people 
would  suspect  her  relationship  to  her  brilliant  husband. 
Indeed,  she  generally  conies  into  publicity,  if  at  all,  as 
it  were  in  his  reflected  light.  First  we  see  the  male, 
about  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  the  woodland 
landscape,  and  then,  looking  about  very  sharply  for 
his  companion,  we  finally  make  out  her  demure  and 
inconspicuous  form  among  the  foliage.  It  is  well  that 
she  is  not  as  conspicuous  as  her  husband,  for  every 
marauder  would  discover  the  nest,  and  presently  there 
might  be  no  more  Scarlet  Tanagers. 

The  nest  is  generally  built  in  the  woods  out  toward 
the  end  of  some  horizontal  branch,  often  in  an  oak,  and 
as  high  as  twenty  feet  from  the  ground.  But  I  have 
also  found  them  in  saplings  no  higher  than  one's  head, 
in  pastures  close  to  the  edge  of  the  woods,  in  wild 
apple  trees  or  abandoned  orchards  grown  to  scrub. 
In  one  spot  of  this  latter  sort  I  recently  found  three  old 
nests,  in  early  June,  and  saw  the  pair  of  tanagers 
loitering  about,  but  could  not  trace  them  to  their  new 
home. 

There  is  another  decadent  orchard  spot  near  my 
home,  on  a  hillside,  by  the  edge  of  woods,  all  grown  up 
to  briers  and  scrub.  The  season  before  the  one  just 
mentioned,  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  May,  I  noted  a  new 
but  uncompleted  nest  on  an  extending  branch  of  an 
apple  tree.  No  bird  was  about,  and  I  was  uncertain 
to  what  species  it  belonged — either  Rose-breasted 

193 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

Grosbeak  or  Purple  Finch  I  thought  it  would  prove  to 
be.  On  June  first  the  nest  held  four  eggs,  which  looked 
like  tanagers',  but  there  was  no  bird  in  sight.  Next 
time,  however,  the  female  tanager  was  on  the  nest. 
It  was  not  favorably  situated  to  photograph,  but  I 
thought  I  would  pose  the  young  later,  when  they  were 
of  the  right  age.  But  young  land  birds  grow  surpris- 
ingly fast  and  I  must  have  waited  just  a  little  too  long, 
for  in  a  Wood  Thrush's  nest  near  by,  in  which  the  eggs 
were  laid  at  about  the  same  time,  the  young  were  ready 
to  leave,  and  the  tanagers'  nest  was  empty.  But  I 
photographed  a  nest  with  eggs  on  a  sapling  in  the  woods 
and  so  have  at  least  that  much  to  show.  Once  I  came 
near  getting  a  good  snapshot  picture  of  a  male  on  a 
wire  fence  with  my  reflecting  camera.  I  crept  up  quite 
near,  but  the  bird  started  to  fly  just  as  I  snapped,  so 
the  picture  was  not  very  good. 

Of  the  two  species  of  waxwings,  the  Bohemian  Wax- 
wing  is  a  very  rare  winter  visitor  from  the  far  North, 
and  I  have  never  seen  it  alive.  The  other,  the  Cedar- 
bird,  is  a  common  and  familiar  bird,  much  admired 
for  its  soft  brown  plumage,  its  wavy  crest,  the  yellow- 
bordered  tail,  and  the  little  red  "sealing  wax"  feather 
tips  that  some  of  them  have  on  their  wings.  Most  of 
the  year  they  go  in  compact  flocks,  making  a  lisping 
note  as  they  fly,  and  alighting  close  together  on  the 
trees.  These  flocks  sometimes  appear  in  the  winter, 
and  one  of  my  earliest  recollections  about  birds  is  that 
one  bitter  cold  day  in  February  a  large  flock  of  these 

194 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

birds  was  flying  about  our  garden,  and  we  picked  up 
one  dead,  which  we  had  mounted.  How  I  did  admire 
it! — much,  I  suppose  as  my  baby  girl  feels,  who  pats 
the  stuffed  birds  hi  my  study  every  day,  saying,  "Chicky, 
chicky." 

In  early  spring,  usually  by  March,  one  begins  to  see 
more  and  more  flocks.  These  large  companies  break 
up  soon  into  smaller  ones.  But  after  all  the  other 
birds  have  paired  and  are  nesting,  still  we  see  flocks  of 
Cedar-birds  and  Goldfinches,  our  two  greatest  delin- 
quents. The  Cedar-bird  is  the  first  of  these  two  to 
yield  to  the  inevitable,  and  by  late  June  or  early  July 
we  begin  to  miss  them.  But  if  we  use  our  eyes  a  little 
we  can  find  a  nest  here  and  a  nest  there,  preferably  in 
an  orchard  tree,  but  also  in  shade  trees  in  gardens  or 
along  village  streets.  The  pretty  mother  sits  quietly 
on  her  compact  nest  of  straws  and  rootlets,  incubating 
her  four  or  five  spotted  eggs,  which  can  be  distinguished 
at  once  from  those  of  any  other  kind.  If  we  disturb 
her  we  shall  hear  the  lisping  notes  which  were  familiar 
in  the  spring.  One  day  in  midsummer  a  boy  came  to 
ask  me  what  sort  of  a  bird  it  was  that  had  a  nest  in  an 
apple  tree  by  his  home  and  kept  saying,  "Listen  to  me, 
listen  to  me."  I  told  him  that  I  never  heard  a  bird 
say  that,  so  I  went  with  him  to  see,  and  found  that  it 
was  a  Cedar-bird. 

They  sometimes  nest  in  my  apple  trees,  and  I  find 
nests  elsewhere  readily  enough,  but  most  of  them  are 
out  on  slender  branches  or  in  deep  shade,  giving  little 
195 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

chance  for  photography.  However,  as  though  to  reward 
my  forbearance  in  not  cutting  down  a  nest  to  pose 
in  unnatural  surroundings,  I  had  an  unusual  chance 
to  photograph  a  pair  of  Cedar-birds  from  life.  In 
a  neighbor's  yard,  a  nest  blew  down  in  a  thunder- 
storm, and  all  but  two  of  the  young  were  drowned 
or  otherwise  disappeared.  A  kind  lady  rescued  the 
neglected  orphans  and  fed  them  till  they  were  fully 
grown  and  feathered.  When  I  saw  them  they  were  at 
liberty  in  the  garden,  and  were  so  tame  that  almost  at 
once  they  would  fly  upon  my  head  or  shoulder  and  beg 
for  food.  They  were  very  fond  of  raspberries,  and 
every  few  minutes  they  would  clamor  to  be  fed — in 
their  lisping  dialect  and  by  beseeching  gestures.  Hand- 
ling them  did  not  alarm  them  in  the  least,  so  I  focused 
the  camera  on  a  small  bush,  and  fed  the  little  fellows 
on  the  desired  branch,  when  they  assumed  all  sorts  of 
pretty  positions  as  I  snapped  them.  After  a  few  days 
they  wandered  off,  and  one  afternoon  a  lady  who 
stepped  out  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  her  house  was 
amazed  to  have  a  Cedar-bird  suddenly  alight  on  her 
head  and  then  hop  to  her  shoulder,  where  she  could  see 
that  it  was  begging  for  food.  She  fed  it,  and  the  other 
one  appeared,  and  they  stayed  about  her  home  all 
day.  It  is  not  good,  though,  for  birds  to  be  too  con- 
fiding, for  a  cat  caught  one  of  them,  and  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  the  other  perished  before  long  in  some 
such  way. 

Very  different  in  temperament  from  the  gentle  wax- 
196 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

wing  is  the  carnivorous  shrike.  Of  the  two  species, 
the  bold  Northern  Shrike,  or  Butcher-bird,  is  the  one 
with  which  I  am  the  more  familiar.  We  only  have  it 
in  winter,  from  November  to  about  early  April.  Most 
often  it  appears  to  our  view  as  a  solitary,  gray-colored 
bird,  nearly  as  large  as  a  Robin,  perched  up  on  the 
topmost  twig  of  some  isolated  tree,  in  a  field  or  by 
the  roadside.  While  we  watch,  it  may  suddenly  dive 
down  into  the  bushes  or  grass  below,  perhaps  returning 
to  its  perch  without  result,  or  it  may  be  with  a  mouse 
or  a  poor  Tree  Sparrow  or  Junco,  grasped  by  the  neck 
by  the  strong,  toothed  beak.  If  hungry,  it  will  proceed 
to  devour  the  victim  like  a  little  hawk.  But  at  times 
it  seems  to  kill  merely  from  habit,  and  will  impale  its 
slaughtered  victim  on  a  thorn  in  the  thicket,  or  suspend 
it  in  a  crotch,  and  leave  it.  It  is  doubtful  if  this  is 
done  to  provide  for  the  future.  Surely,  in  cold  winter 
weather,  when  the  meat  would  freeze  solid,  the  shrike 
could  hardly  be  supposed  to  eat  it.  Sometimes,  when 
one  of  these  birds  of  murderous  taste  locates  in  a  town 
and  practices  its  talents  on  English  Sparrows,  we  come 
to  feel  friendly  toward  it. 

I  remember  how  surprised  I  was  the  first  time  I 
heard  the  Butcher-bird  sing.  It  was  in  March,  and  on 
the  topmost  twig  of  a  small  elm  on  the  edge  of  a  field 
stood  a  bird  which  at  once  I  called  a  shrike.  As  I 
drew  near  I  was  greatly  surprised  to  hear  it  warbling 
away  very  prettily.  At  that  time  I  had  not  read  that 
butchering  and  musicianship  could  unite  in  an  in'di- 

197 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

vidual.  I  should  about  as  soon  have  expected  a  hawk 
to  rival  the  pet  Canary.  However,  I  saw  that  it  was  a 
Butcher-bird  without  doubt,  so  that  day  I  added  to  my 
little  stock  of  bird-lore. 

The  Butcher-bird  nests  far  to  the  north,  but  the 
other  species,  the  Loggerhead  Shrike,  is  more  southerly, 
and  is  quite  widespread,  though  rare  in  the  northeastern 
States.  I  have  found  its  nest  in  Florida  and  seen  it  a 
few  times  as  far  west  as  North  Dakota.  In  habits  it  is 
a  good  deal  like  the  Butcher-bird,  though  more  of  the 
sort  of  singer  that  one  would  expect  a  butcher  to  be.  I 
have  noticed  that  it  seems  to  like  pretty  well  to  perch 
on  telegraph  wires. 

Somewhat  resembling  the  shrikes  in  structure,  hav- 
ing in  common  with  them  the  strong,  notched  bill, 
the  vireos  are  yet  a  very  different  group  of  birds. 
They  are  birds  of  the  foliage,  clad  in  dull  green  and 
olive  garb  which  renders  them  inconspicuous,  great 
destroyers  of  insects,  and  of  considerable  ability  in 
song.  They  all  build  neat  cup-shaped  nests  which 
they  hang  in  a  slender  fork,  usually  near  the  end  of  a 
bough.  Of  the  six  species  that  visit  us,  the  first  to 
come  in  spring,  toward  the  latter  part  of  April,  is  the 
Blue-headed  or  Solitary  Vireo.  These  species  are  all 
pretty  much  of  a  size  and  quite  similar  in  plumage, 
and  we  must  look  carefully  to  distinguish  them.  This 
one  is  particularly  distinct  with  the  bold  white  ring 
around  the  eyes,  bluish-gray  crown  and  sides  of  head, 
and  short,  stubby  bill.  It  is  a  northerly  species,  but  it 

198 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

sometimes  nests  as  far  south  as  southern  New  England 
and  in  the  Alleghany  Mountains. 

I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  one  nest.  As 
I  was  passing  along  the  edge  of  a  pine  grove  one  June 
seventeenth,  I  noticed  a  vireo's  nest  in  the  fork  of  an 
extended  branch  of  a  sapling,  not  quite  as  high  as  my 
head.  The  owner,  a  Solitary  Vireo,  was  at  home,  and 
was  surprisingly  tame.  Though  I  stood  close  to  her, 
she  did  not  move,  and  it  was  only  when  I  almost  put  my 
hand  on  her  that  she  hopped  off  and  began  to  scold 
very  angrily.  There  were  four  small  young  in  the  nest. 
Unfortunately  this  was  before  the  days  of  bird  photog- 
raphy, in  my  boyhood,  when  the  portrait  photographer 
fixed  one's  head  in  a  vise  and  made  one  sit  rigid  for  a 
fearfully  long  time.  I  am  certain  that  the  vireo  would 
not  have  submitted  to  that. 

Last  summer  I  came  pretty  near  finding  another  nest 
of  this  bird.  A  friend  and  I  had  been  exploring  a 
typical  Northern  sphagnum  swamp,  around  which  grew 
a  tract  of  black  spruce,  making  ideal  conditions  for 
tempting  Northern  birds  to  linger  south  of  their  usual 
range.  It  was  getting  toward  evening,  and  we  were 
just  coming  out  of  the  woods  when  we  heard  a  vireo 
singing  away  with  all  its  might  from  a  pine  tree  near  by. 
"That  song  doesn't  sound  to  me  just  like  the  common 
Red-eye,"  said  my  friend.  "It  certainly  does  sound  a 
little  peculiar,"  I  replied,  "let's  look  it  up."  The  pine 
was  a  large  one,  and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  vainly 
craned  our  necks,  while  the  bird  sang  on.  Finally  my 
199 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

friend  threw  a  stone  at  random  and  almost  hit  the 
singer,  which  darted  out  over  my  head  and  went  down 
into  the  swamp.  Presently  it  began  again  to  sing  and 
we  followed  it  up.  For  some  time  it  kept  itself  con- 
cealed in  the  top  of  another  tall  pine,  but  at  last  it  flew 
down  low  and  gave  us  a  fine  view.  It  was  a  Blue- 
headed  Vireo.  This  was  in  late  June  and  of  course  the 
nest  was  somewhere  near  by.  We  made  a  long,  careful 
search  for  it,  but  at  last  had  to  give  it  up  and  return  for 
supper.  It  proved  impossible  for  me  to  visit  the  spot 
again. 

Another  species  that  is  easy  to  distinguish  is  the 
Yellow-throated  Vireo.  Its  bright-yellow  throat  re- 
veals its  identity  in  a  moment.  Though  found  in 
woodland,  it  is  quite  partial  to  the  shaded  street  or 
garden,  where  it  finds  delight  and  food  in  the  tall  shade 
trees,  from  which  it  sings  away  blithely  all  the  day. 
One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  of  a  beautiful  nest 
of  this  species  in  our  garden  in  Boston,  ornamented 
with  many  bits  of  white  paper  and  cotton  and  lined 
with  beautiful  soft  plant  down.  More  latterly  a  pair 
built  at  the  extremity  of  a  slender  limb  of  an  ash  tree 
quite  near  a  window  of  my  present  home. 

The  Warbling  Vireo  is  another  species  which  fre- 
quents the  tall  shade  trees  of  town  or  village,  or  even 
city.  It  is  a  plainly-garbed  little  bird,  perhaps  the 
most  demure  of  all  the  vireos,  greenish  above  and 
yellowish  white  below,  without  distinct  markings. 
The  nest  is  nearly  always  inaccessible,  and  were  it  not 

200 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

for  its  voluble  singing,  it  would  seem  much  scarcer  than 
it  really  is.  There  is  another  vireo  which  is  quite  like 
it,  a  rare  migrant,  the  Philadelphia  Vireo,  which  may 
be  distinguished  by  uniform  pale  greenish-yellow  color 
of  its  entire  under-parts. 

The  remaining  other  two  kinds  are  named  after  the 
color  of  their  eyes,  or  iris — White-eyed  and  Red-eyed 
Vireo.  The  former  has  a  ring  of  yellowish  feathers 
around  the  eyes,  and  is  a  bird  of  the  swampy  thicket, 
a  hard  bird  to  study,  as  its  haunts  are  so  impenetrable. 
However,  I  have  managed  to  find  its  nest,  suspended 
in  a  low  bush  in  the  dense  tangle  of  a  swamp,  though 
were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  the  little  fellow  is  such  a 
capital  singer  and  mimic,  the  most  accomplished 
vocally  of  all  our  vireos,  even  the  bird  lover  might  not 
suspect  its  presence.  Even  as  it  is,  with  all  its  fine 
singing,  few  people  know  of  its  existence. 

If  there  is  any  vireo  at  all  well-known,  it  is  the  Red- 
eyed  Vireo,  or  "Preacher-bird,"  as  some  have  called  it, 
readily  distinguishable  by  white  stripe  over  the  eye. 
It  is  one  of  our  most  abundant  woodland  birds,  and  is 
also  often  found  in  shade  trees  or  orchards.  No  bird's 
nest  is  more  often  found  in  the  woods  than  the  Red- 
eye's. One  winter  day,  while  taking  a  walk  in  the 
woods  with  Ned  and  another  boy,  I  noticed  a  number 
of  these  nests  on  the  bare  branches.  "Boys,"  said  I, 
"stop  a  moment  and  tell  me  how  many  vireos'  nests 
you  can  discover  right  from  where  you  stand."  The 
boys  began  to  peer  about,  and  after  some  little  time 

201 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

they  made  out  to  find  the  six  which  I  had  already  noted. 
In  late  spring  and  pretty  much  throughout  the  summer 
it  seems  as  though  one  could  hardly  go  anywhere  into 
woodland  without  hearing  the  simple  monotonous  carol 
of  the  Red-eye  "preacher."  If  no  one  listens  to  his 
discourse,  it  makes  no  difference,  for  his  "preaching"  is 
only  intended  for  home  consumption,  the  expression  to 
his  mate  of  his  affection  and  of  their  mutual  happiness. 

The  nest  is  generally  in  the  fork  of  a  sapling,  low 
down,  often  within  four  feet  of  the  ground.  The 
mother  bird  sits  tamely  upon  her  three  or  four  white, 
sparsely-dotted  eggs.  I  have  found  it  easy  to  stand 
the  camera  near  by  and  photograph  her,  though  she 
snuggles  down  so  deeply  into  the  cup  that  little  of  her 
can  be  seen  save  her  head  and  the  top  of  her  back. 

Of  all  the  many  Red-eyes'  nests  which  I  have  seen, 
none  have  proved  as  interesting  as  one  which  I  found 
this  last  June.  I  was  just  coming  out  of  the  woods 
back  from  the  shore  of  a  pond,  when  one  of  these  vireos, 
flying  into  the  shrubbery,  suddenly  encountered  me 
face  to  face.  At  once  it  began  to  scold,  and  I  saw  the 
nest  on  a  low  sprout,  just  to  one  side.  It  was  newly 
finished  and  contained  only  one  egg,  not  the  vireo's, 
but  of  the  Cowbird  parasite.  To  help  the  vireo,  I 
removed  it,  thinking  that  now  the  birds  might  raise 
their  brood  in  peace.  I  kept  the  nest  in  mind,  and, 
wishing  to  photograph  young  vireos,  I  returned  to  it 
twenty-three  days  later,  at  the  time  when  the  brood 
ought  to  be  nearly  fledged.  As  I  peered  into  the  nest 

202 


Red-eyed  Vireo  feeding  young  Cowbird.     "Save  one  a  worm"  (p-  204). 


Red-eyed  Vireo  feeding  Cowbirds.     "A  big  red  raspberry 
.     .     .     moulh"  (pp.  204-5). 


shoved  into 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS   DIVERSE 

I  saw  that  there  were  young,  but  imagine  my  surprise 
when  these  young  proved  to  be,  not  vireos,  but  two 
lusty  young  Cowbirds,  about  ready  to  fly.  There  is 
no  way  of  knowing  whether  one  Cowbird  had  laid 
three  times  in  this  nest,  or  whether  it  was  the  work  of 
three  different  Cowbirds.  No  doubt  these  youngsters 
had  thrown  out  or  trampled  to  death  the  whole  brood  of 
young  vireos.  I  had  a  good  mind  to  wring  their  necks, 
but  the  foster  mother  came  and  acted  so  distressed,  that 
I  decided  she  had  had  trouble  enough. 

But  anyhow  I  was  going  to  photograph  the  young 
rascals.  It  was  dark  there  in  the  woods,  so  I  carried 
them  some  rods  out  into  an  open  clearing,  where  I 
posed  them  on  a  branch  and  used  up  my  last  few 
plates.  By  this  time  the  old  vireo  had  found  us  and 
scolded  plaintively  from  a  branch  close  by.  Then  it 
began  to  dawn  upon  me  that  I  had  been  rash  in  using 
up  my  plates  so  soon.  I  withdrew  a  few  yards,  leaving 
the  camera  where  it  was,  close  to  the  young.  Within 
a  minute  the  vireo  flew  down  and  gave  one  of  her 
adopted  children  a  worm,  utterly  ignoring  the  camera. 
I  do  not  know  when  I  ever  felt  more  utterly  disgusted 
at  myself  for  having  made  such  a  blunder.  Oh,  if  I 
only  had  a  few  plates!  My  reflecting  camera  was  in 
the  buggy  half  a  mile  away  and  the  sun  nearly  setting! 
Putting  the  young  Cowbirds  in  the  carrying  case,  to 
keep  them  from  fluttering  away  in  my  absence,  I  ran 
as  fast  as  I  could,  got  the  other  camera  and  plates, 
c,nd  rushed  back  again.  I  put  the  youngsters  on  the 

203 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

branch  and  sat  down  near  by  with  the  big  camera,  ready 
for  business.  The  vireo,  to  my  delight,  went  right  to 
feeding  the  clamorous  Cowbirds  and  I  scored  half-a- 
dozen  shots  before  the  western  hill  cut  off  the  yellow 
sunshine.  I  put  the  youngsters  back  in  the  nest,  hoping 
against  hope  that  they  would  not  be  gone  on  the  mor- 
row, for  I  knew  that  these  pictures  already  taken  must 
be  under-exposed,  as  they  proved  to  be. 

All  in  a  fluttet  of  excitement,  the  next  morning,  I 
peered  through  the  foliage  as  I  neared  the  nest.  "Oh, 
joy,  they  are  there!"  I  exclaimed.  I  thought  surely  I 
was  all  right  now,  but  my  troubles  were  to  begin.  I 
posed  the  young,  but  they  were  determined  not  to  stay 
on  the  branch,  and  I  had  to  replace  them  again  and 
again — scores  of  times.  Besides  this,  the  mother  did 
not  show  up.  After  waiting  over  an  hour,  I  feared  all 
sorts  of  things,  as  she  had  not  appeared  at  the  nest 
while  I  was  removing  the  young.  Finally,  just  as  I 
was  thinking  of  returning  them  to  the  nest,  I  heard  the 
old  bird,  and  presently  she  came  and  gave  one  a  worm. 
But  now  it  had  clouded  up  darkly  and  threatened  rain, 
being  too  dark  to  photograph.  I  sat  there  another  hour 
or  more  and  watched  her  tuck  grubs,  flies,  raspberries 
and  the  like  into  the  hungry  mouths.  There  was  the 
camera  staring  helplessly  at  all  those  splendid  poses 
two  or  three  feet  away,  and  I  fairly  gnashing  my  teeth, 
my  proverbial  patience  almost  a  complete  wreck. 

But  at  length  the  clouds  began  to  break.  The  sun 
peered  out,  and  I  scored  a  shot  as  a  big  red  raspberry 

204 


FOUR   NEIGHBORS    DIVERSE 

was  being  shoved  into  a  widely  opened  mouth.  Pres- 
ently another  gleam,  just  in  time  to  catch  on  the  plate 
the  offer  of  a  great  fat  worm.  For  about  an  hour  there 
were  intervals  of  sunshine,  during  which  feeding  was 
in  active  operation,  and  shooting,  too!  I  fired  away 
with  that  camera  till  it  was,  metaphorically,  red-hot 
and  when  the  dark  leaden  pall  shut  in  again  over  the 
sky  before  the  shower  broke,  I  went  away  rejoicing, 
leaving  the  devoted  and  deluded  vireo  still  cramming 
the  insatiable  maws  of  those  murderers  of  her  own 
offspring. 


205 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FEATHERED  GEMS 

(The  Warbl&rs) 

TALKING  about  a  day  in  June  being  "rare" 
always  makes  me  feel  like  standing  up  for  May. 
Really  I  should  like  to  know  whether  any  day 
in  June  can  surpass  a  real  "warbler  day"  in  May — 
when  the  fruit  trees  are  white  and  pink  with  their 
canopies  of  blossoms,  when  the  tints  of  the  young 
foliage  are  so  exquisite,  when  the  air  is  soft  but  not  hot, 
and  when  trees  and  shrubbery  in  woods,  swamp, 
garden,  orchard  and  village  streets  are  fairly  alive  with 
variegated  warblers,  flashing  about  in  their  greens, 
blues,  reds  and  yellows.  Yesterday  we  noticed  none, 
but  to-day,  this  thirteenth  of  May — lucky  day  it  is 
indeed — we  can  hardly  look  at  an  apple  tree  without 
having  our  eyes  arrested  by  movements  which  are  not 
those  of  blossoms  swayed  by  the  wind.  As  though  the 
wedding  garb  of  this  bridal  tree  were  not  rich  enough 
to  express  the  springtime  joy,  she  must  be  further 
decked  with  feathered  gems,  the  crowning  jewelry  of 
Nature.  It  is  indeed  a  joy  to  live  and  move  and  have 
one's  being  at  such  a  time — outdoors,  of  course,  for  it 

206 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

were  a  sin  to  stay  under  a  roof  and  behind  glass  on  one 
of  these  rare  May  warbler  days. 

No  sooner  had  I  set  foot  even  upon  the  piazza  than 
my  eye  caught  the  flash  as  of  rubies,  and  there,  in  the 
larch  tree  on  the  front  lawn  were  a  little  company  of 
half  a  dozen  Bay-breasts,  the  first  I  had  seen  in  several 
years.  In  the  clump  of  honeysuckle  bushes  was  a 
flashy  Magnolia  Warbler  busily  looking  for  his  break- 
fast. From  the  Norway  spruces  bordering  the  street 
I  heard  a  snatch  of  unfamiliar  song,  and  there  was  the 
first  and  only  Cape  May  Warbler  I  had  ever  met,  a 
beautiful  adult  male,  whose  distinguishing  mark  was 
the  tan — I  almost  said  sun-burn — of  his  cheeks.  The 
shade  trees  rang  with  the  joyous  notes  of  the  Redstart, 
that  flame  of  a  bird — and  for  that  matter  with  a  perfect 
babel  of  other  bird-notes  and  songs,  of  Robins,  Orioles, 
Vireos,  Purple  Finches,  Grosbeaks,  Wrens,  Grackles, 
and  others.  The  orchard  was  a  place  of  delight. 
Parula  Warblers,  with  their  bright  hues  of  blue  and 
yellows  were  fluttering  before  the  blossoms;  Myrtle 
Warblers  were  making  sallies  for  flies  from  the  bower 
of  petals;  Black-throated  Greens,  more  leisurely  in 
motions,  were  droning  out  their  soporific  little  ditty. 
To  make  more  brilliant  the  occasion,  the  common  but 
conspicuous  Yellow  Warbler  had  loaned  us  his  charms, 
as  had  also  the  spectacular  and  rarer  Blackburnian. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Ned  that  he  did  not  have  to 
attend  school  that  day,  so  we  started  off  to  see  how 
many  kinds  of  warblers  we  could  note  for  the  day's 

207 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

list.  Most  of  the  morning  we  spent  in  the  woods  well 
up  the  slope  of  a  range  of  hills  on  the  west  side  of  the 
river.  Warblers  of  one  sort  or  another  were  within 
sight  or  hearing  all  the  time.  Of  course  the  Oven- 
birds  were  calling  for  "teacher"  as  volubly  as  usual. 
The  familiar  Black  and  White  Creeper  was  perambulat- 
ing the  tree  trunks  and  larger  branches,  singing  his 
simple  little  trill.  One  of  them  stopped  for  a  moment 
on  a  branch  close  beside  us  to  see  what  we  were  up  to, 
and  I  just  had  time  to  snap  him  with  my  "Reflex" 
before  he  started  off  on  his  travels.  Blackburnians 
and  Bay-breasts  were  unusually  common.  In  one  spot 
several  of  both  of  these  were  searching  for  food,  in 
some  low  undergrowth.  I  sat  down  upon  a  rock  near 
by,  keeping  perfectly  quiet,  and  presently  the  pretty 
little  things  were  close  around  me,  occasionally  even 
within  arm's  reach,  and  I  secured  some  snapshots  of 
both  species,  though  the  May  sun  was  rather  fickle, 
dodging  in  and  out  behind  the  broken  cloud  masses 
that  had  begun  to  rise.  There  was  considerable  moun- 
tain laurel  undergrowth,  and  the  male  Black-throated 
Blues  were  there  in  full  song,  and  thus  conspicuous, 
whereas  it  took  careful  searching  to  find  their  silent 
and  somber-hued  little  brides,  some  of  whom  were 
already,  doubtless,  choosing  nesting-sites,  for  they  build 
rather  early  and  are  common  here  with  us.  Redstarts, 
Myrtles,  and  Black-throated  Greens  were  also  numerous 
in  the  woods. 

Coming  down  and  out,  we  ate  our  lunch  upon  the 
208 


Black  and  White  Creeping  Warbler.     "Just  had  time  to  snap  him"  (p.  208). 


Black  and  White  Creeping  Warbler  on  nest.     "By  throwing  rays  of  light  upon 
her"  (p.  227). 


Nest  of  Black-throated  Blue  Warbler.     "A  neat,  compactly  woven  little  cup" 
(p.  219). 


Nest  of  Yellow-breasted  Chat,  with  one  runt  egg.     "Amid  the  densest  tangle  of 
briars"  (p.  222). 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

beautiful  river  bank,  and  then  followed  the  "river 
road,"  with  its  variety  of  over-arching  trees  and  fringe 
of  swampy  thickets.  It  is  usually  a  fine  place  for  birds, 
and  to-day  it  fairly  outdid  itself.  We  had  gone  but  a 
little  way  when  there  was  a  flash  of  yellow  in  the  road- 
side thicket  and  here  was  the  Canadian  Warbler,  with 
the  necklace  of  black  beady  spots  hung  across  his  yellow 
breast,  the  brilliancy  of  which  was  enhanced  by  the 
more  somber  grayish  back.  This  one  was  but  the  first 
of  many,  for  we  kept  meeting  them  every  few  minutes. 
And  now  came  an  even  yellower,  though  smaller,  ap- 
parition, a  Wilson's  Warbler,  or  Wilson's  Black-cap, 
skipping  blithely  about  in  a  clump  of  bushes,  quaint  in 
his  shiny  black  little  feather  cap.  In  the  thickets  along 
the  river  bank  were  any  number  of  Northern  Yellow- 
throats,  and  their  "witchery- witchery"  songs  stood  out 
above  the  general  chorus.  In  the  same  haunts  we  spied 
out  an  occasional  Water  "Thrush,"  or  Wagtail,  near 
relative  of  the  Oven-bird,  but  darker  of  back  and  even 
more  heavily  streaked  on  the  breast.  They  were 
walking  sedately  through  the  debris  of  the  swamp, 
teetering  their  bodies  from  time  to  time.  Of  course 
the  familiar  Chestnut-sided  Warblers,  they  that  disport 
the  brown  side-stripes,  were  abundant  all  along  the 
road,  as  were  Redstarts,  Parulas,  Yellow  Warblers, 
Black-throated  Greens  and  Myrtles.  Up  from  the 
road,  in  a  patch  of  chestnut  scrub  part  way  up  the 
hillside,  we  heard  the  versatile  Yellow-breasted  Chat 
pouring  forth  his  medley,  and  presently  saw  him 

209 


FEATHERED    GEMS 

perched  on  a  sun-bathed  limb,  warbling  away.  Further 
along,  a  mountain  brook,  which  flowed  through  a  dark, 
rocky  hemlock-shaded  ravine,  crossed  the  road,  and 
here,  by  the  little  bridge,  we  saw  a  Louisiana  Water 
Thrush,  distinguishable  from  the  other  species  by  the 
throat  being  pure  white,  instead  of  streaked.  It  is  a 
bird  of  very  similar  habit,  though  southern  New  Eng- 
land is  about  its  northern  breeding-range,  whereas  the 
other  goes  further  north.  Out  more  in  the  open,  in  a 
willow,  I  detected  the  rather  inconspicuous  Nashville 
Warbler,  a  tiny  fellow  who  has  some  reddish  hair — 
or  feathers — on  the  top  of  his  head. 

This  made  twenty  kinds  of  warblers  seen  in  one  day, 
and  we  thought  we  had  done  pretty  well.  I  wanted  to 
follow  up  this  fine  flight  on  the  morrow  and  perhaps 
find  some  more  of  the  varieties.  In  good  season, 
therefore,  I  was  out  and  at  it,  but,  strange  to  say,  I 
could  find  but  very  few  warblers,  save  the  resident 
kinds.  The  host,  having  fed  bountifully  that  nice  day, 
under  the  impulse  of  that  strange,  restless  longing  for 
the  spruce  and  balsam  forests  of  the  North,  had  started 
on  during  the  night,  and  by  this  time  were  very  many 
miles  away.  But  it  was  a  good  season  for  warblers, 
and  before  it  closed  we  both  had  seen  more  kinds  than 
we  had  ever  met  before  in  a  season,  including  some 
which,  like  the  Cape  May,  were  entire  strangers.  What 
a  delight  it  is,  after  one  has  studied  birds  for  decades 
and  thinks  he  has  met  about  every  species  around  home 
which  he  is  likely  ever  to  meet,  and  that  he  knows  them 

210 


FEATHERED    GEMS 

all,  suddenly  to  encounter  one  which  he  has  never  in  his 
life  seen  alive. 

Such  an  event  occurred  this  same  season  one  day 
toward  evening.  It  was  about  twenty  minutes  before 
supper  time.  I  had  already  been  afield  that  day,  and 
my  first  impulse  was  to  play  on  the  piano.  But  some- 
thing moved  me  to  stroll  out  back  of  the  village  street 
and  look  for  bird-migrants.  On  the  edge  of  a  cemetery 
is  a  narrow  strip  of  woodland  bordering  a  meadow, 
growing  on  a  rather  steep  bank.  Hardly  had  I  looked 
over  the  edge  when  I  saw  a  warbler  in  some  low  shrub- 
bery, half  way  down  the  slope.  Just  as  I  raised  my 
field-glass  it  flew,  but  in  that  instant  I  thought  I  saw 
bold  stripes  on  the  head.  Instantly  Audubon's  picture 
of  the  Worm-eating  Warbler  flashed  into  my  mind.  I 
am  fortunate  enough  to  own  a  set  of  Audubon  and  it 
was  probably  that  which  started  me  out  as  a  child  with 
a  passion  for  birds.  Though  confident  that  I  had  just 
seen  my  first  "Worm-eater,"  I  must  have  a  better  view 
to  be  sure.  So  I  followed  after  it  along  the  strip  of 
trees  and  shrubbery,  hoping  that  I  might  start  it  again. 
About  a  hundred  yards  further  on  a  bird  flew  from  the 
ground  which  I  thought  was  the  one.  It  kept  flitting 
on  and  on,  after  brief  stops  among  the  patches  of  fern, 
until  I  was  about  in  despair  of  getting  a  good  look  at  it. 
Finally  it  seemed  to  stay  in  one  spot  and  I  stole  up 
with  caution.  Peering  through  the  bushes,  I  was 
thrilled  and  delighted  to  see  it  sitting  motionless  on  a 
log,  within  a  very  few  feet  of  me,  an  undoubted  Worm- 


FEATHERED   GEMS 

eating  Warbler,  with  the  bold  stripes  on  its  head.  With 
my  powerful  glasses  I  could  see  it  as  well  as  though  it 
were  in  my  hands.  There  it  sat  for  fully  five  minutes, 
perhaps  about  ready  for  bed.  Then  I  startled  it  and 
it  darted  off.  As  I  returned  home  I  also  saw  its  mate. 
I  hoped  they  would  breed  there,  as  it  was  an  ideal 
situation  for  them,  but  I  never  could  find  them  after- 
ward. This  was  the  very  last  of  May. 

Another  rarity  to  me  that  I  had  met  a  few  days  before 
was  a  male  Golden-winged  Warbler,  splendid  with  his 
conspicuous  yellow  wing-bars,  feeding  in  an  apple  tree 
near  my  home.  Still  another  was  a  Tennessee  Warbler 
which  I  encountered  during  a  furious  cold  rainstorm 
in  a  pasture.  The  poor  little  fellow  flew  out  from 
where  he  had  been  sheltering  himself  under  a  rock. 
He  was  bedraggled  and  shivering,  but  he  flitted  to  an 
apple  tree  and  set  to  work  hunting  for  supper  among 
the  blossoms.  In  the  same  pasture  I  saw  a  Canadian 
Warbler  so  benumbed  that  it  could  hardly  fly,  and  I 
almost  caught  it.  Other  birds  were  about  in  the  same 
condition,  so  I  was  thankful  that  immediately  after 
this  the  weather  cleared.  The  storm  had  been  on  for 
three  days,  and  such  bad  weather  in  the  migration  or 
breeding  period  is  very  destructive  of  bird  life. 

There  are  a  few  of  the  warblers  which  we  are  liable 
to  meet  which  I  have  not  mentioned.  Such  is  the 
Yellow  Palm  Warbler,  a  common  and  early  species, 
quite  flycatcher-like  in  habits,  which  comes  to  us  about 
mid-April.  On  the  warbler  day  described  above  we 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

did  not  see  any,  and  probably  they  had  mostly  migrated 
beyond  us.  The  last  of  all  the  tribe  to  appear  is  the 
Black-poll  Warbler.  It  looks  a  little  like  the  Black  ( 
and  White  Warbler,  but  is  different  enough,  and  has 
none  of  the  "creeper"  habits,  keeping  in  the  foliage 
pretty  well  up  and  droning  out  a  lisping  little  ditty. 
We  usually  have  it  lingering  till  the  last  of  May  or  the 
first  of  June,  and  in  the  tardy  season  of  1907  it  remained 
at  least  till  June  12th.  Both  the  Mourning  and  Con- 
necticut Warblers  are  rare;  they  are  found,  like  their 
nearest  " Swamp- Warbler"  relatives — as  certain  scien- 
tists have  classed  them — mostly  on  or  near  the  ground, 
and  they  are  easily  confused,  as  both  are  much  alike, 
with  dark  ashy  throat-patch.  A  careful  reading  of  the 
descriptions  in  the  Manuals  is  advisable  to  fix  in  mind 
their  points  of  difference.  Then  there  is  the  Pine 
Warbler,  the  bird  with  dull,  plain  yellow  breast  which 
runs  creeper-like  over  the  trunks  and  branches  of  pines, 
especially  the  yellow  or  pitch  pine,  in  regions  of  poor 
and  sandy  soil.  With  it  we  may  think  of  the  Prairie 
Warbler,  which  is  likewise  locally  distributed,  in  scrubby 
and  bushy  tracts,  an  inconspicuous  little  fellow,  and,  in 
my  experience,  rather  hard  to  find,  unless  one  is  in  a 
region  that  they  have  chosen  as  a  center  of  abundance. 
Even  less  conspicuous  is  the  Blue-winged  Warbler, 
which  somewhat  resembles  the  Yellow  Warbler,  but  has 
grayish  or  ashy  wings.  It  is  fond  of  the  edge  of  woods, 
and  usually  is  far  from  common.  Where  I  live  they 
are  more  apt  to  be  seen  in  August,  after  the  breeding 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

season.  The  Hooded  and  Kentucky  Warblers  are 
rather  common  in  parts  of  the  Middle  States,  and  there 
are  several  rare  or  accidental  species  which  one  might 
possibly  meet,  such  as  the  Prothonotary,  Brewster's 
(probably  a  hybrid),  Cserulean  and  Yellow -throated 
Warblers. 

This  makes  about  thirty-five  species  of  this  remark- 
able family  which  we  may  meet  in  the  Eastern  and 
Middle  States.  About  twice  that  number  are  known 
to  occur  in  the  entire  United  States,  and  there  are  some 
thirty  more  tropical  species,  making  about  one  hundred 
known  species  of  Wood  Warblers,  a  group  which  is 
peculiar  to  the  Western  Hemisphere.  Thus  the  group 
is  second  with  us  in  number  of  species  to  the  puzzling 
finch  family,  and  it  has  almost  as  many  puzzles  for 
the  beginner  in  bird-study.  The  task  is  easiest  in 
spring,  when  all  of  them  are  in  their  bright  and  distinc- 
tive nuptial  dress.  But  by  autumn  they  have  become 
more  or  less  dull-colored  and  nondescript,  especially 
the  young,  some  of  which  latter  can  hardly  be  identified 
without  shooting — such  as  young  Black-polls  and  young 
Bay-breasts. 

Most  of  the  warblers  are  slender,  active  little  birds, 
living  mostly  in  dry  or  swampy  woodland,  where  from 
the  foliage  they  glean  their  living  of  insects,  grubs  and 
larvae.  They  cannot  endure  much  cold,  so  most  of 
them  migrate  in  autumn  to  the  tropics.  A  few  kinds 
winter  in  our  Southern  States,  but  only  one,  the  Myrtle 
Warbler,  recognizable  by  its  yellow  rump-patch,  ever 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

stays  to  brave  the  snow  and  cold  of  our  Northern  win- 
ters. They  are  mostly  among  the  last  of  our  migrants 
to  return  to  us  in  spring,  May  being  the  great  flight 
time,  though  we  begin  to  have  a  few  in  April,  such  as 
the  Myrtle,  Yellow  Palm,  Pine,  and  Black-throated 
Green. 

One  nice  thing  in  studying  warblers  is  that  in  migra- 
tion they  come  to  our  very  doors,  fairly  forcing  them- 
selves upon  our  attention.  At  such  times,  careless  of 
their  accustomed  haunts,  they  pour,  as  it  were,  across 
the  country  like  a  tidal  wave.  Wherever  there  is  a  tree 
with  young  leaves  or  blossoms,  we  are  liable  to  find 
warblers  at  such  times,  even  on  city  streets.  They 
pour  into  city  parks,  and  such  a  place  as  Central  Park, 
New  York  City,  is  one  of  the  very  best  warbler  grounds, 
for  they  are  fairly  congested  in  such  green  spots  amid 
weary  miles  of  pavement,  which  are,  for  them,  truly 
oases  in  the  desert.  So  everyone  who  will  may  study 
the  beautiful  warblers  right  at  home,  and,  with  opera 
glass  to  see  them  and  text-book  to  identify  them,  learn 
and  enjoy  much. 

A  disadvantage  and  disappointment,  to  the  contrary, 
is  that  the  abundance  of  the  migration,  as  we  see  it, 
varies  very  much  from  year  to  year.  Some  years,  as 
we  have  been  showing,  warblers  are  everywhere.  But 
then  again  we  shall  hardly  find  them  at  all.  In  these 
years,  for  some  reason,  the  hosts  either  take  another 
route  in  their  travels  or  else  pass  over  us  at  night,  and 
we  look  in  vain  for  their  welcome  presence  on  the 
215 


FEATHERED    GEMS 

blossom-laden  fruit  trees.  Investigations  to  learn  the 
reason  for  this  are  on  foot,  but  as  yet  it  is  largely  a 
mystery. 

The  autumnal  migration  is  by  no  means  a  repetition 
of  the  delightful  experiences  of  the  spring.  Silently  and 
almost  stealthily  the  warblers  slip  past  us  and  are  gone 
ere  we  realize  that  they  have  been  with  us  at  all,  unless 
we  look  carefully  for  them.  No  longer  do  their  exuber- 
ant spirits  reveal  themselves  in  snatches  of  character- 
istic song.  The  pretty  nuptial  garb  is  exchanged  for 
the  traveler's  costume,  as  though  they  were  expecting 
to  rough  it  on  the  long  journey  amid  increasing  cold. 
Nor  do  they  come  so  much  at  this  season  into  the  gar- 
dens and  orchards,  but  keep  more  to  woods  and  thickets. 
They  are  shier,  too,  and  in  every  way  harder  to  identify. 
Yet  we  love  them  for  what  they  were,  and  what  they 
will  be  next  spring  again.  Small  bands  of  them  begin 
to  appear  in  August,  and  during  September  the  bulk 
of  them  pass.  By  early  October  most  of  them  have 
gone. 

We  should  expect  from  the  name  "warbler"  that 
these  birds  were  great  singers,  whereas  they  are  not. 
Each  species  in  spring  has  some  characteristic,  short, 
simple  phrase,  or  phrases,  of  song,  more  or  less  varied, 
consisting  of  several  rather  weak  notes,  seldom  as  many 
as  a  dozen.  Some  of  these  songs  resemble  those  of 
other  species,  while  others  are  quite  distinctive.  But 
it  is  possible  for  any  person  of  quick  ear  who  will  care- 
fully observe  these  songs  to  become  able  to  recognize 

216 


FEATHERED    GEMS 

the  warblers  by  their  notes.  This  is  a  great  advantage 
in  field  work,  and,  for  that  matter,  to  know  all  bird- 
notes  as  far  as  possible.  It  will  save  one  a  great  deal  of 
needless  searching  and  instantly  call  one's  attention 
to  the  presence  of  rare  species  which  otherwise  would 
probably  be  overlooked. 

To  a  great  many  people  there  is  a  special  fascination 
connected  with  the  nesting  of  the  warblers,  just  as  there 
is  in  finding  the  various  species  on  their  spring  migra- 
tion. Their  little  houses  are  so  dainty,  and  ordinarily 
so  well  concealed  and  hard  to  find,  that  the  discovery 
of  a  warbler's  nest  is  a  distinctly  interesting  and  en- 
livening event.  Most  of  them  nest  well  to  the  north. 
Only  about  seven  kinds  breed  at  all  commonly  in  most 
Middle-Eastern  districts — namely,  the  Yellow,  Chest- 
nut-sided and  Black-throated  Green  Warblers,  Oven- 
bird,  the  Northern  Yellow-throat,  Redstart,  and  Black 
and  White  Creeper  or  Warbler.  A  few  more  breed 
sparingly  or  locally — such  as  the  Chat,  Kentucky, 
Hooded,  Blue-winged  Yellow  and  Worm-eating  War- 
blers, especially  in  the  Middle  States;  and  casually 
there  or  in  the  latitude  of  southern  New  England  the 
Nashville,  Golden-winged,  Parula,  Black-throated  Blue, 
Pine  and  Canadian  Warblers  and  the  Louisiana  Water 
Thrush.  Out  of  about  sixteen  kinds  which  at  all 
normally  breed  in  the  regions  where  I  have  lived — 
Massachusetts  and  northern  Connecticut — I  have  found 
the  nests  of  twelve.  The  number  grows  very  slowly, 
and  only  by  persistent  and  assiduous  searching.  But 

217 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

it  is  one  of  the  beauties  of  this  delightful  "Sport  of  Bird 
Study"  that  the  unexpected  is  always  liable  to  happen. 

It  was  thus  unexpectedly  that  I  happened  upon  my 
only  nest  of  the  Nashville  Warbler.  Ned  and  I  were 
going  up  into  some  woods  where  a  pair  each  of  Broad- 
winged  and  Cooper's  Hawks  nested,  on  the  fifteenth 
of  May.  We  were  following  an  old  cart-road  bordering 
a  field  and  the  woods  on  a  side-hill.  On  the  side  toward 
the  field  was  a  low  grassy  bank,  about  three  feet  high. 
Just  as  I  passed  close  to  a  certain  spot,  out  darted  a 
small  warbler  from  the  grass  of  the  bank,  within  arm's 
reach  of  me,  and  fluttered  over  the  road,  quivering  its 
wings.  Now,  when  a  warbler  quivers  its  wings  one 
may  be  very  sure  that  there  are  either  nest  or  young 
near  by,  so  I  was  on  the  alert.  The  bird  then  flew  up 
into  a  low  tree  and  began  a  scolding  "chip,  chip." 
After  identifying  it  positively  as  a  Nashville,  we  went 
eagerly  to  work  to  look  for  the  nest.  But,  though  we 
examined  carefully  every  inch  of  the  ground,  there  was 
absolutely  no  sign  of  it,  except  a  little  hollow  amid 
some  dry  grass.  I  told  Ned  that  I  believed  the  bird 
had  just  scratched  it  out  preparatory  to  beginning  to 
build  and  that  we  would  look  again  later. 

On  the  29th  of  May  we  were  there  once  more.  No 
bird  flew  out  and  no  nest  could  we  discover.  Just  as 
I  was  wondering  if  we  could  not  have  mistaken  the 
spot,  Ned's  sharp  eyes  detected  a  little  opening  in  the 
dry  grass,  and  in  underneath  was  a  dainty  little  cup  of 
moss  lined  with  grass,  and  five  tiny  white  eggs  with 

218 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

reddish  spots.  They  were  cold,  so  I  thought  the  bird 
would  lay  another  egg,  for  some  warblers  occasionally 
lay  six.  However,  I  took  a  photograph  of  the  nest  and 
eggs  and  came  back  several  days  later,  in  a  downpour 
of  rain — a  genuine  lover  of  birds  doesn't  mind  such  a 
trifling  inconvenience,  if  one  is  dressed  for  it.  There 
the  same  five  eggs  were,  cold  and  wet.  I  took  them 
and  the  nest  home  and  found  that  incubation  had 
proceeded  three  or  four  days  before  the  mother  dis- 
appeared. I  suspected  the  Cooper's  Hawks  of  the 
murder  of  the  female,  so  Ned  and  I  went  and  robbed 
them  of  their  eggs  that  there  might  not  be  four  more  of 
them  there  to  eat  warblers.  It  was  fortunate  that  I 
identified  the  Nashville  the  first  time,  or  I  should  never 
have  known  to  what  bird  the  nest  belonged  and  the 
experience  would  have  been  without  scientific  value. 

Another  good  warbler  find  I  shall  have  to  lay  to  the 
credit  of  my  wife.  Ned  and  I  conducted  a  party,  con- 
sisting of  a  bird-club  of  ladies,  up  a  steep  road  back 
into  the  hill  country  where  the  Black-throated  Blue 
Warblers  nested  quite  abundantly  in  the  woods  where 
there  was  an  undergrowth  of  mountain  laurel.  As  two 
of  the  ladies  were  following  an  old  wood  road,  up  flitted 
a  little  olive-colored  bird  from  close  beside  them,  and 
my  wife  discovered  tfre  nest  in  the  fork  of  a  low  sassafras 
sprout,  about  a  foot  from  the  ground.  It  was  a  neat, 
compactly  woven  little  cup  and  contained  four  eggs. 
They  called  to  me  and  I  examined  the  nest  and  then 
hid,  to  try  to  see  the  owner.  Presently  she  began  to 

219 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

hop  about  chirping,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  of  the 
above  species  from  the  rather  conspicuous  white  wing- 
bar,  which  is  very  characteristic.  The  male  with  his 
dark  blue  back  and  black  throat  is  a  very  distinguished 
citizen,  with  a  lovely  little  song,  but  his  little  wife  is 
very  plain  indeed.  This  was  the  tenth  of  June,  and 
the  eggs  were  nearly  ready  to  hatch. 

Another  season,  on  the  twelfth  of  June,  after  climbing 
to  examine  the  young  "robbers  of  the  falls,"  mentioned 
in  the  third  chapter,  Ned  and  I  sat  on  the  rocks  below 
the  great  fall,  eating  our  lunch.  Presently  I  noticed  a 
female  Louisiana  Water  Thrush  pattering  about  among 
and  over  the  rocks,  teetering  as  usual.  At  first  I  did 
not  pay  much  attention  to  her,  but  after  she  had  gone 
off  and  returned  several  times,  it  began  to  dawn  upon 
me  that  we  might  be  near  her  nest  and  that  she  was 
anxious.  So  we  withdrew,  hid  behind  a  bowlder  and 
watched.  After  climbing  about  for  perhaps  five  minutes 
longer,  the  bird  flew  up  into  a  recess  of  the  steep  side 
of  the  ravine,  just  behind  where  we  had  been  eating, 
and  disappeared.  Waiting  to  make  sure  that  she  had 
settled  down,  we  stole  up  cautiously,  and  out  she 
popped  from  a  hole  in  the  mossy  declivity,  close  beside 
us.  There  was  the  nest  with  five  white,  finely  speckled 
eggs,  built  into  the  recess  in  the  green  moss  and  dry 
leaves  which  had  lodged  there.  Some  of  these  latter 
stuck  up  and  partly  concealed  the  entrance,  which  was 
five  feet  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  The  owner 
was  now  running  about  near  by,  chirping  excitedly. 

220 


FEATHERED   GEMS 

After  photographing  the  nest  with  the  camera  on  the 
tripod,  I  thought  I  would  try  for  a  picture  of  the  old 
bird  on  the  nest.  It  was  rather  a  hard  problem  to  hide 
the  camera  properly.  The  only  way  seemed  to  be  to 
tie  it  on  the  projecting  rock  on  the  side  of  the  gully,  a 
little  above  and  in  front  of  the  nest.  At  first  there  seemed 
to  be  no  place  to  stand  to  focus,  but  Ned  generously 
offered  to  let  me  stand  on  his  head  with  one  foot,  having 
the  other  over  a  rock,  grasping  a  sapling  with  one  hand 
while  I  adjusted  the  camera  with  the  other.  It  was 
hard  work  and  took  quite  a  while,  but  at  last  the  camera 
was  rigged,  connected  by  a  thread,  and  covered  with 
dead  leaves.  From  over  the  brook  we  watched,  till,  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bird  stole  back  to  the  nest, 
when  I  went  around  and  pulled  the  thread  for  timed 
exposure,  once  to  open  the  shutter,  and  in  ten  seconds 
to  close  it.  In  this  way  I  exposed  four  plates  suc- 
cessively, securing  one  picture  only,  as  in  the  other 
cases  the  shutter  did  not  work  properly,  closing  too 
quickly  to  get  an  image  there  in  the  deep  shadow. 
When  we  came  again  later  to  photograph  the  young, 
we  were  sorry  to  find  all  but  one  thrown  out  of  the  nest, 
with  wounds  on  their  bodies,  and  the  other  wounded 
so  badly  that  it  soon  died — crows  or  jays  this  time,  I 
suspect. 

In  the  tall  dark  hemlocks  around  the  falls,  the  Black- 
throated  Green  Warblers  are  abundant,  as  they  are  in 
nearly  every  grove  of  evergreens.  One  can  hardly 
listen  a  minute  without  hearing  their  dreamy  little  soitg 


FEATHERED    GEMS 

which  well  fits  in  with  the  murmuring  voices  of  the 
grove.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  I  have  walked  under 
literally  thousands  of  their  nests,  yet  I  never  have 
found  but  one,  and  that  was  built  in  a  pine  grove  near 
a  Sharp-shinned  Hawks'  nest,  and  was  deserted  before 
the  eggs  were  laid,  the  warblers,  probably,  being  killed 
by  the  hawks.  The  nests  are  built  out  on  the  branches, 
usually  high  up,  where  they  cannot  be  seen  from  the 
ground,  and  hence  they  are  very  hard  to  find,  among 
so  many  thick  trees.  Speaking  of  the  destruction  of 
these  various  birds  or  their  nests,  according  to  my 
experience  a  considerable  portion  of  the  birds  fail  to 
rear  their  young  owing  to  predatory  vermin  or  cold 
storms.  Indeed,  it  seems  almost  remarkable  that  any 
of  the  birds  survive  the  many  dangers  to  which  they 
are  exposed,  and  the  very  least  we  can  do,  in  order 
that  they  may  not  be  exterminated,  is  not  to  injure  or 
needlessly  disturb  them  ourselves,  and,  better  still,  to  do 
all  that  we  can  for  their  protection. 

Another  warbler  that  conceals  its  nest  in  a  different 
way  is  the  Chat.  It  builds  a  rather  bulky  structure 
amid  the  densest  tangle  of  briers,  entirely  hidden  from 
sight.  It  was  only  by  struggling  through  acres  and 
miles  of  brambles,  with  plenty'  of  scratches  and  rents 
in  clothing,  that  I  have  found  nests  of  this  retiring  bird. 
To  hear  it  sing,  imitating  other  birds  and  pouring 
forth  the  loud,  striking  medley  that  it  does,  one  would 
expect  to  find  it  of  a  bold,  audacious  disposition, 
whereas  it  is  just  the  opposite.  So  shy  is  it  that  I  have 

222 


Oven-bird  on  nest.     "Amid  the  low  mountain  laurel"  (p.  228). 


Louisiana  Water  Thrush  on  nest.     "The  bird  stole  back  to  the  nest"  (p.  221). 


Redstart  on  nest.     "Their  home  is  pretty  and  trim"  (p.  225). 


Chestnut-sided  Warbler  on  nest.     "A  tame,  confiding  little  fellow"  (p.  224) 


FEATHERED   GEMS 

never  been  able  to  surprise  or  photograph  one  on  the 
nest. 

A  very  singular  structure  is  that  of  the  Parula  War- 
bler. All  the  nests  that  I  have  found  or  known  were 
built  in  the  pendent  streamers  of  the  gray  usnea  moss 
which  hangs  in  beards  from  trees.  In  the  northern 
States  this  moss  is  not  plentiful,  and  where  it  does 
occur  the  Parula  is  quite  apt  to  colonize.  I  have  found 
such  colonies  of  a  few  pairs,  or  a  dozen,  in  some  moss- 
grown  swamp,  especially  in  larch  or  spruce  trees.  In 
one  place  there  was  an  old  apple  orchard  with  trees  all 
overgrown  with  streamers  of  this  moss,  and  those 
streamers  held  a  number  of  sets  of  eggs.  The  warbler 
does  not  appear  to  build  a  nest,  but  rather  to  scrape 
out  a  hollow  in  a  swaying  beard  of  moss  and  lay  the 
eggs  in  this  hanging  basket. 

I  must  now  tell  of  the  nesting  of  our  common  summer 
resident  warblers,  those  whose  nests  we  are  most  liable 
to  come  across.  The  one  whose  nest  is  most  often 
found  is  the  familiar  Yellow  Warbler,  the  kind  which 
is  practically  all  yellow,  and  which  is  emphatically  not 
a  wild  Canary,  though  many  people  call  it  so.  It 
builds  a  rather  bulky,  soft  nest  of  plant  down  and 
fibers  on  a  bush  in  a  swamp,  especially,  in  my  experi- 
ence, a  willow  bush,  or  near  the  end  of  a  low  branch 
of  some  small  maple  or  bushy  clump  in  the  garden. 
A  friend  of  mine  showed  me  the  nest  of  a  pair  in  a  lilac 
bush,  right  under  his  bedroom  window.  A  wet  bushy 
pasture  is  also  a  good  place  to  search,  and  in  such  an 

223 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

one  I  recently  found  two  nests  with  young.  I  set  up 
my  camera  by  one,  which  was  built  only  four  feet  from 
the  ground,  and,  after  decking  the  instrument  and 
tripod  with  bushes  and  lying  in  wait  a  few  rods  off  with 
a  thread,  I  was  able  to  make  exposures  when  one  or 
other  of  the  parents  came  with  food  for  the  nestlings. 
One  of  these  pictures  shows  the  male  tucking  a  fly  into 
a  widely  opened  mouth. 

Another  bush-nester  is  the  familiar  and  interesting 
Chestnut-sided  Warbler.  This  one  prefers  dry  scrub 
land,  brier  patches,  and  the  like.  The  nest  is  less 
ornate  than  that  of  the  Yellow  Warbler  and  is  placed 
habitually  lower  down,  seldom  more  than  waist  high, 
whereas  the  other  often  builds  above  one's  head.  I 
usually  find  the  nest  by  plunging  through  the  bushes, 
thrashing  about  at  random  with  a  switch.  If  I  happen 
to  pass  near,  the  little  bird  flies  out  and  there  is  the  nest 
concealed  from  above  in  the  foliage.  Chestnut-side  is 
a  tame,  confiding  little  fellow,  an  easy  bird  to  photo- 
graph. I  have  set  up  the  camera  close  to  a  nest,  con- 
cealing it  by  drawing  bushes  around  it  and  trimming 
it  with  leaves  and  boughs.  After  no  more  than  rea- 
sonable hesitation,  the  pretty  warbler  hopped  back  into 
the  nest,  and,  after  standing  there  a  moment  to  take 
in  the  situation,  settled  down  to  incubate.  Then  I  pulled 
the  thread  and  "got"  my  unhurt  quarry.  It  would  fly 
off,  and  when  it  returned  I  took  it  before  it  settled 
down.  After  a  few  such  incidents,  it  would  pay  no 
further  attention  to  the  click  of  the  shutter,  and  would 

224 


FEATHERED   GEMS 

even  let  me  photograph  it  by  hand  and  change  plates 
without  stirring. 

One  day,  as  I  was  driving,  a  boy  stopped  me  and 
showed  me  a  nest  in  a  strip  of  hazel  bushes  by  the  road- 
side of  a  pair  of  Chestnut-sided  Warblers.  It  contained 
the  odd  combination  of  a  rotten  egg,  a  young  warbler 
and  a  larger  young  Cowbird.  After  some  trouble  I 
photographed  the  uneasy  things,  and,  having  thrown 
out  the  egg  in  the  hope  of  making  enough  room  for  the 
ill-matched  pair,  returned  two  days  later  to  see  how 
affairs  progressed.  It  was  the  old  story.  The  parasite 
had  thrown  out  the  rightful  offspring,  which  had  dis- 
appeared, leaving  the  fat,  ugly  intruder  filling  the  nest 
and  clamoring  for  all  the  food  that  both  the  deluded 
warblers  could  bring.  Probably  this  is  what  happens 
in  nearly  every  case  in  which  the  Cowbird's  egg,  laid  in 
the  nest  of  another  and  smaller  species,  hatches. 

The  Redstart  is  surely  one  of  the  most  charming  of 
our  birds.  Its  song  is  simple,  but  how  incessantly  it 
sings,  fairly  bubbling  over  with  the  joy  of  life — this 
flame  of  a  brilliant  male,  whose  little  flame  of  a  wife 
burns  yellow  instead  of  red,  and  who  can  make  some 
music  as  well  as  he.  Their  home  is  as  pretty  and  trim 
in  its  way  as  are  they.  It  is  very  firmly  woven  into 
and  around  the  fork  of  a  sapling  or  of  some  up-sloping 
limb,  usually  from  five  to  twenty  feet  from  the  ground, 
so  firmly  as  to  seem  a  part  of  the  tree,  and  often  coming 
through  the  winter  storms  perfectly  intact,  though 
made  of  rather  soft  material.  While  it  is  not  always 

225 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

hidden  by  foliage,  it  is  usually  quite  hard  to  discover, 
so  well  does  it  harmonize  with  its  surroundings.  There 
was  a  spot  in  a  grove  where  a  pair  of  Redstarts  were  in 
evidence  all  the  time,  and  I  was  sure  there  must  be  a 
nest  close  by.  One  evening  I  watched  the  female 
hopping  uneasily  about,  and  I  peered  and  peeped, 
scanning  every  limb,  without  result.  The  next  morn- 
ing I  went  to  the  same  spot,  and  the  very  first  thing  I 
spied  her  sitting  on  her  nest  five  feet  up  a  sapling  in  a 
crotch,  within  a  few  feet  of  where  she  had  been  the 
night  before.  I  set  up  the  camera  near  the  nest,  and 
she  went  right  on  again  with  hardly  any  hesitation. 
The  shade  was  dense,  so  I  got  a  mirror,  threw  light  on 
her  and  the  nest,  and  by  the  thread  made  a  number  of 
exposures,  both  as  she  sat  on  her  four  eggs  and  as  she 
was  coming  to  them. 

Very  hard  to  find  are  the  nests  of  the  ground-building 
Warblers.  Indeed  if  it  were  not  for  flushing  them  by 
chance  from  their  nests,  the  quest  would  be  almost 
hopeless.  The  Black  and  White  Warbler  is  one  of 
these.  Withal  that  it  is  so  common  in  the  woods,  its 
nest  is  very  hard  to  discover,  and  I  have  only  found  it 
twice,  with  eggs  and  with  young.  In  the  former  case  I 
flushed  the  female  by  the  base  of  a  tree  in  swampy 
woods.  In  the  other,  one  June  14th,  Ned  and  I  heard 
the  female  chirping  in  some  dry  hemlock  woods.  We 
hid  to  watch,  and  presently  saw  her  run  down  a  trunk 
and  disappear  in  the  dry  leaves.  After  a  few  minutes 
we  stole  up  and  surprised  her  on  the  nest.  She  went 

226 


Nest  of  Chestnut-sided  Warbler,  illustrating  how  the  young  foster  Cowbird  destroys 
the  brood.     Nest  now  contains  a  Cowbird,  a  young  Warbler  and  an  egg  (p.  225) 


The  condition  of  the  Chestnut-sided  Warbler's  nest  two  days  later.     The  young 
Cowbird  has  ejected  the  young  Warbler,  and  fills  the  nest  (p.  225).  " 


Yellow  Warbler  feeding  young  in  nest.     "The  male  tucking  a  fly  into  a  widely- 
opened  mouth"  (p.  224). 


Northern  Yellow-throat.     "Depositing  the  tidbit"  (p.  229). 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

out  almost  from  under  my  feet,  trembling  her  wings, 
as  she  ran  stumbling  over  the  ground.  The  nest  was 
a  frail  affair,  built  partly  under  some  dead  leaves,  and 
in  it  were  five  tiny,  naked  young.  I  withdrew  for 
awhile,  and,  on  returning,  saw  her  on  the  nest.  Pro- 
ceeding to  set  up  the  camera  on  the  shortened  tripod, 
by  working  very  slowly  I  was  able  to  bring  the  lens 
within  about  three  feet  and  focus  on  the  little  mother. 
It  was  quite  dark  under  the  hemlocks,  but  fortunately 
I  carried  a  small  pocket  mirror  for  such  purpose,  and 
by  throwing  rays  of  light  upon  her  was  able  to  secure 
some  good  pictures,  as  she  kept  very  still.  To  reward 
her  I  withdrew  without  flushing  her  from  her  babies. 
The  Oven-bird,  which  is  so  abundant  in  the  woods, 
builds  its  nest  on  the  ground  under  dead  leaves  which 
are  arched  over  it  so  as  to  make  the  entrance  in  the 
side,  as  in  an  old-fashioned  oven — whence  the  bird's 
name.  I  have  been  especially  fortunate  in  stumbling 
across  these  nests,  I  suppose  because  I  have  been  a 
good  deal  in  the  woods  and  kept  industriously  in  mo- 
tion. One  day  I  found  two  nests  by  flushing  the  birds 
when  I  had  almost  stepped  on  them.  It  was  mid 
June  and  the  eggs  looked  fresh.  This  species,  and 
most  of  the  warblers  in  this  latitude,  have  eggs,  ordi- 
narily, by  the  first  of  June,  or  the  last  week  in  May, 
but  in  1907  most  of  them  delayed  till  toward  the  middle 
of  June,  which  is  very  unusual.  As  it  was  toward 
evening  and  I  had  a  long  drive  home,  I  came  again,  a 
week  later.  One  of  the  nests  had  been  robbed  by  some 
227 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

varmint,  but  the  other  housekeeper  was  at  home  and 
allowed  me  to  photograph  her  there,  amid  the  low 
mountain  laurel,  as  nice  as  you  please.  She  left  the 
nest  when  I  moved  the  camera  very  near,  but  came 
back  in  a  few  minutes  and  then  let  me  work  and  change 
plates  without  using  the  thread,  except  the  first  time. 
The  other  ground-builder  is  the  Northern  Yellow- 
throat.  It  prefers  a  bushy  swamp,  with  bunches  of 
grass,  in  one  of  which  latter  the  nest  is  usually  placed. 
Not  only  by  flushing  the  bird,  but  also  by  looking  in 
tussocks  when  the  bird  began  to  scold,  I  have  spied 
the  nest.  It  also  builds  on  the  ground  among  thickets 
or  in  weeds,  and  on  top  of  a  skunk  cabbage  in  a  swamp 
it  often  finds  a  desirable  location  for  its  tenement. 
Such  a  home  I  once  found  with  five  eggs,  and  returned 
to  it  when  the  young  were  just  ready  to  fly.  Only  two 
of  them  were  alive,  for  the  nest  had  partly  tipped  over 
and  the  other  three  had  fallen  out  and  starved  or  chilled 
within  a  foot  of  home,  the  parents  not  having  had 
intelligence  enough  to  help  them  back,  feed  or  brood 
them,  which  they  surely  could  have  done.  Just  as  I 
reached  the  nest  the  sky  had  become  overcast.  The 
two  remaining  young  were  determined  to  escape,  but 
I  tied  them  on  a  log,  and,  with  the  camera  set  close  to 
them,  the  male  came  again  and  again  and  fed  them. 
It  was  simply  maddening  that  the  sun  would  not  shine 
out  for  even  one  instant.  I  secured  portraits  of  the 
young  by  timed  exposures,  but  the  few  feeding  pictures 
that  I  attempted  had  hardly  a  trace  of  an  image  on  the 


FEATHERED  GEMS 

plates.  Next  day  the  sun  was  bright,  but  I  could  not 
find  the  young,  though  they  were  near,  as  the  anxiety 
of  the  parents  proclaimed. 

A  year  later,  on  the  edge  of  a  thicket  by  a  brook 
flowing  through  a  field,  a  pair  of  these  birds  scolded 
at  me,  appearing  now  and  then  with  a  worm  for  the 
young.  I  hid  and  watched  and  made  up  my  mind 
that  there  were  young  out  in  the  grass.  After  a  search 
I  found  one,  a  fledgling,  and  then  I  knew  what  to  do. 
Making  a  perch,  I  set  him  on  it  before  the  camera, 
and  retired  with  the  end  of  my  spool  of  thread  into  the 
bushes  out  of  sight.  The  male  would  not  venture  in 
this  case,  but  the  female  did,  and  in  the  course  of  two 
hours  she  gave  me  sixteen  pictures  of  herself  lugging 
some  fat  worm  or  depositing  the  tidbit  in  the  open 
mouth  of  the  little  bird.  In  another  case  I  snapped 
her — though  only  with  head  and  shoulder  on  the 
plate — as  she  was  trying  to  ram  down  the  youngster's 
throat  a  big  harvest-fly  that  was  altogether  too  large 
for  a  fit.  It  stuck  fast,  and  the  old  bird  had  to  come 
back  and  ram  and  shove  before  the  luscious  mouthful 
was  forced  down.  It  was  the  best  series  of  feeding 
pictures  I  had  ever  secured  and  I  drove  home  delighted 
with  the  day's  work. 

The  American  Pipit,  or  Titlark,  is  closely  related  to 
the  warblers.  These  birds  appear  in  flocks  as  rather 
early  spring  and  late  fall  migrants,  frequenting  open 
pastures  or  barren  ground,  where  they  walk  about 
jerking  their  tails. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THRUSH     COUSINS 

(Thrashers,  Wrens,  Titmice,  Kinglets,  Thrushes,  Etc.} 

SUCH  a  bird  as  the  Brown  Thrasher  is  often  popu- 
larly thought  of  as  a  kind  of  thrush,  but,  though  this 
is  not  strictly  correct,  it  has  so  much  in  common 
with  the  thrushes  that  we  can  quite  naturally  talk  of  the 
group  to  which  it  belongs,  and  those  between  it  and  the 
thrushes  in  the  classification,  along  with  the  true  thrushes. 
Our  thrasher,  together  with  the  familiar  Catbird  and 
the  various  wrens,  are  classed  in  a  family  called  Troglo- 
dytidcp.,  or  wren-like  birds.    This  scientific  name  literally 
means  "cave-dwellers,"  suggesting  that  they  are  all  birds 
of  a  sort  of  under-world,  fond  of  seeking  out  holes  and 
crevices  and  impenetrable  tangles,  sly  and  artful  dodgers. 
Though  willing  enough  to  show  themselves  upon  occa- 
sion, they  seldom  get  very  far  from  the  possible  place  of 
refuge,  into  which  they  can  dive  upon  the  slightest  alarm. 
Wherever  a  bird  of  their  size  can  penetrate,  they  can  do 
likewise  with  their  enchantments,  or  even  go  it  one  better. 
Most  people  know — or  at  any  rate  ought  to  know — 
the  Brown  Thrasher,  the  rather  large  bird  with  rich 
reddish-brown  back  and  a  long  tail,  which  is  so  fond 

230 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

of  dusting  itself  in  the  road  and  which  one  sees  flitting 
into  the  thickets.  It  returns  from  the  South  about  the 
last  of  April,  and  when  it  mounts  up  on  a  roadside 
bush  or  sapling  and  pours  out  a  flood  of  song,  it  is  sup- 
posed by  farmers,  according  to  the  old  adage,  to  be 
calling  out,  "Plant  corn,  plant  corn."  The  thrasher 
probably  is  no  farmer,  but  it  arrives  and  begins  to  sing 
at  about  the  usual  corn-planting  season.  It  is  really 
a  remarkable  songster,  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  our 
feathered  musicians.  Toward  the  end  of  May  the 
nest  with  its  four  or  five  eggs  finely  dotted  all  over  with 
brown  may  be  found  by  the  sharp-eyed  and  persistent 
searcher  in  a  thicket,  either  on  the  ground,  or,  more 
generally,  several  feet  up  in  the  bushes. 

I  used  to  wonder  why  the  bird  was  called  a  thrasher. 
But  after  I  had  actually  received  a  real  thrashing  from 
a  pair  of  them,  I  thought  I  had  some  light  upon  the 
subject.  Ordinarily  they  are  quite  timid  and  retiring, 
and,  though  I  had  heard  of  cases  where  they  were  very 
bold  in  defending  their  nests,  in  all  my  experiences  I 
had  found  them  as  timid  as  most  song  birds.  But  on 
the  afternoon  of  June  18,  1906,  toward  sundown,  I  was 
driving  homeward  along  a  country  road,  on  one  side  of 
which  was  a  farmhouse,  on  the  other  a  bushy  pasture. 
Here  I  saw  a  Brown  Thrasher  fly  across  the  road  just 
ahead  of  me,  carrying  in  its  bill  a  large  worm.  It  flew 
down  into  the  pasture  and  alighted  upon  the  top  of  a 
dead  sprout  which  projected  from  a  thick  clump  of 
bushes.  After  pausing  for  a  moment  to  look  around 

231 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

in  order  to  be  sure  that  the  coast  was  clear,  down  it 
went  into  the  midst  of  the  thicket. 

It  was  evident  that  there  was  a  nest  somewhere  near 
that  spot,  so  I  hitched  the  horse,  took  my  4x5  camera 
and  tripod,  and  went  to  investigate.  First  of  all  I  made 
a  careful  inspection  of  the  thicket  into  which  the 
thrasher  had  gone,  but  could  see  no  sign  of  a  nest. 
Puzzled,  I  looked  it  through  again,  but  with  the  same 
result.  Just  as  I  was  going  off,  to  look  further  away, 
I  heard  a  series  of  sharp  hissing  sounds,  which  increased 
in  vehemence  as  I  followed  up  this  clue.  Even  then 
it  was  some  moments  before  I  discovered  the  author, 
not  a  snake,  but  the  Brown  Thrasher,  sitting  close  on 
a  nest  which  was  built  into  a  cavity  of  the  ground  under 
the  bushes.  There  the  bird  remained,  though  I  was 
but  a  step  away,  looking  up  into  my  face  and  continuing 
to  hiss,  braving  me  and  daring  me  to  touch  it. 

Of  course  I  withdrew  a  little  and  made  ready  the 
camera  on  the  tripod.  But  the  presentation  of  that 
blunderbuss  was  too  much  for  the  thrasher's  nerves. 
It  ran  off  into  the  bushes  wThere  it  was  joined  by  its 
mate,  and  both  of  them  set  up  a  great  outcry.  I  could 
now  see  them  both  at  times  and  discovered  that  the 
brighter  colored  one,  the  male,  was  the  one  which  had 
been  on  the  nest.  No  wonder  they  were  angry  and 
anxious,  for  they  had  five  young  ones,  ragged  and  un- 
couth in  appearance,  but  lusty  and  promising,  of  quite 
good  size. 

Opening  up  the  bushes  temporarily  to  let  in  a  little 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

light  upon  this  interesting  subject,  I  set  the  camera 
upon  the  shortened  tripod,  decked  it  with  foliage, 
attached  a  thread,  set  the  shutter  for  one  second  ex- 
posure, and  retired  for  awhile.  The  birds  soon  stopped 
scolding,  so  I  sneaked  up  and  discovered  that  the  male 
thrasher  was  upon  the  nest.  So  I  pulled  the  thread, 
and  was  glad  to  see  that  the  bird  sat  still.  He  then 
allowed  me  to  creep  up  behind  the  camera,  change 
plates,  and  make  exposures  by  hand,  using  a  long- 
focus,  eighteen  inch  single  lens.  But  when  I  tried 
to  push  the  camera  nearer  he  beat  a  retreat.  It  was 
now  getting  too  dark  for  further  work  that  day,  so  I 
put  back  the  bushes  in  order  and  went  home. 

Owing  to  trips  away  and  rainy  weather,  it  was  not 
till  four  days  later,  June  22d,  that  I  was  able  to  resume 
the  work,  this  time  with  a  reflecting  camera.  Again 
the  male  was  on  duty.  He  slipped  off  as  before,  and 
again  I  opened  the  bushes,  and,  very  innocently,  put 
out  my  hand  to  the  nest  to  remove  an  obstructing  leaf. 
I  was  so  surprised  and  startleo!  that  I  almost  fell  over 
backward  when  instantly  the  male  thrasher  dashed 
from  the  shrubbery  behind  the  nest  and  struck  the 
offending  hand  a  stinging  blow.  Quickly  he  withdrew 
again  and  took  his  station  behind  the  nest  with  his  five 
big  offspring,  waiting  to  see  what  I  would  do.  As  I 
was  not  looking  for  a  fight,  but  for  the  pictures,  I 
stepped  back  a  bit  and  squatted,  quietly  waiting  for 
the  brave  defender  to  make  the  next  move.  Though  it 
was  mid-afternoon,  the  June  sun  was  quite  warm,  and 
233 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

in  a  very  short  time  the  young,  though  now  too  old  to 
be  injured  thus,  became  a  bit  restless.  The  devoted 
father  noticed  this,  and  came  at  once  to  their  relief. 
Running  out  from  his  shelter,  he  took  his  stand  over 
them,  spreading  out  wings  and  tail  so  as  to  perfectly 
shield  them  from  the  sun.  How  fine  and  noble  a  bird 
he  looked  as  he  bravely  did  his  duty,  with  an  air  both 
fearless  and  at  the  same  time  resigned  to  whatever  fate 
might  befall  him.  The  female  was  back  in  the  thicket 
exhorting  him,  I  took  it,  to  be  brave.  But,  despite  this 
intrusion  for  the  sake  of  my  studies,  I  came  as  a  friend, 
and  would  not,  nor  did  not,  hurt  them. 

With  the  reflecting  camera  I  then  advanced,  and,  pre- 
senting the  instrument  as  near  to  him  as  I  pleased, 
snapped  and  snapped  again.  Then  I  wanted  a  differ- 
ent pose  of  the  brave  bird,  so  I  extended  my  foot  toward 
him.  Quick  as  a  flash  he  pounced  at  my  leg,  struck  it  a 
quick,  angry  blow,  and  hastened  back  to  the  young,  this 
time  sitting  on  the  nest  as  though  incubating.  After 
getting  his  picture  in  this  position,  I  decoyed  him  off 
several  times  again.  After  each  attack  he  would  either 
return  to  the  nest  directly,  or  go  off  into  the  thicket  a 
few  moments  before  coming  back  home  to  assume 
some  new  and  striking  pose.  One  such  was  when  he 
stood  over  the  young  and  some  of  them  poked  out  their 
heads  to  see  for  themselves  what  was  going  on.  Some- 
times, when  I  made  only  a  slight  feint,  he  would  run 
part  way  to  meet  me  and  stand  out  in  the  open  in  a 
defiant  attitude,  while  I  snapped  him. 
234 


Brown  Thrasher  (female).     "Ran  out  in  front  of  the  nest"  (p.  235). 


Male  Brown  Thrasher,  shielding  young  in  nest.     "Perfectly  shield  them  from  the 
sun"  (p.  234). 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

During  the  course  of  this  fracas  the  young  had  one 
by  one  crawled  just  outside  the  nest  into  the  shade 
close  by,  all  but  one,  which  was  more  puny  than  the 
rest  and  could  not  get  out  of  the  rather  deep  cup.  It 
was  fortunate  for  me  that  this  one  stayed,  for  the  noble 
parent  was  as  ready  to  incur  danger  for  one  as  for  all. 
His  fine  example  at  length  seemed  to  inspire  his  rather 
faint-hearted  mate,  for  she  began  to  grow  more  threaten- 
ing and  even  ran  out  in  front  of  the  nest,  where  I 
secured  just  one  snapshot  of  her  standing  on  a  low  rock. 

Having  now  used  up  quite  a  number  of  plates  and 
secured  pictures  of  about  every  possible  position,  I 
thought  I  would  see  what  they  would  do  if  I  actually 
handled  the  young.  So  I  started  to  lay  hold  of  the 
chick  in  the  nest.  But  no  sooner  had  I  touched  it  than 
like  a  whirlwind,  with  shrieks  of  rage  and  despair,  both 
thrashers  precipitated  themselves  upon  me.  Seizing 
my  fingers  with  their  claws,  they  hung  on,  scratching 
like  vixens,  nipping  my  hand  here  and  there  with  their 
sharp  bills  and  beating  it  furiously  with  their  wings. 
Then  they  darted  off  into  the  thicket,  and  again  and 
again  I  tried  to  touch  the  young  one,  with  the  same 
result.  The  whole  thing  so  touched  and  interested  me 
that  I  felt  no  injury  from  their  attack,  but  when  I  be- 
thought myself  to  look  at  my  hand  I  saw  that  it  was 
dotted  with  little  drops  of  blood,  where  they  had 
scratched  or  bitten  through  the  skin.  Then  I  wrapped 
a  handkerchief  around  the  injured  member  and  let 
them  try  to  tear  that  for  a  change.  If  I  stood  up  and 
235 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

put  my  foot  near  the  nest  they  attacked  that,  clinging 
to  my  pant  leg  and  mauling  that  to  the  utmost  of  their 
ability. 

My  only  lack  was  of  an  assistant  to  photograph  the 
birds  in  the  act  of  attacking  me.  It  was  too  late,  though 
to  secure  one  that  afternoon.  The  next  day  I  would 
have  brought  Ned,  but  the  rain  poured  down  unceas- 
ingly, and  by  the  day  following  the  thrashing  thrashers 
and  their  offspring  had  retired  safely  from  the  field 
of  the  hard  fought  battle  and  the  glorious  victory.  No 
doubt  they  believe  that  they  worsted  and  routed  a  man, 
and  henceforth  and  forever  thrasher  art,  folk-song  and 
literature  will,  of  course,  prate  of  arms  and  of  the 
man  who  on  that  memorable  day  backward  reeled  from 
the  stubborn  birds  and  a  barren  field.  And,  as  for  the 
man  in  the  case,  he  no  longer  doubts  the  thrasher 
prowess,  and  enjoys  recounting  the  sensations  of  the 
thrashing  administered  by  these  professional  thrashers. 

The  melodious  thrasher  likes  the  dry  thicket  and 
patches  of  bushy  scrub,  whereas  his  vocal  rival  and 
near  relative,  the  Catbird,  prefers  the  swampy  thickets, 
or  those  bordering  upon  wet  ground.  Though  called 
Catbird  from  its  ordinary  scolding,  mewing  note,  the 
bird  is  a  really  magnificent  singer,  with  an  amazingly 
extensive  repertoire.  After  watching  it  on  some  perch 
and  hearing  it  warble  away  and  imitate  various  birds, 
if  we  invade  its  chosen  thicket  a  striking  change  occurs 
as  it  turns  from  singing  to  scolding,  about  as  radical  as 
though  at  a  concert  the  prima  donna  should  suddenly 
236 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

begin  to  swear.  However  we  are  not  surprised,  for  we 
know  the  Catbird  to  be  a  great  scold. 

One  will  find  the  rather  bulky  nests  of  this  bird  almost 
everywhere  in  the  thickets.  Some  are  old  and  aban- 
doned; the  new  ones,  from  the  last  of  May  and  on, 
will  contain  four  or  five  very  dark  blue  eggs,  and 
later  young.  When  one  comes  near  the  bird  flies  off, 
and  then  begins  to  mew  and  scold  at  a  great  rate,  yet 
I  never  heard  of  one  turning  "thrasher."  For  all  that, 
though,  the  average  Catbird  is  bolder  then  than  the 
average  Brown  Thrasher.  At  such  times  I  have  been 
able  to  "snapshoot"  them  with  the  reflecting  camera, 
watching  the  opportunity  when  the  bird  comes  out  for 
a  moment  upon  some  open  branch  where  the  sunlight 
strikes  it.  If  we  pose  the  camera  near  the  nest,  our 
formerly  bold  friend  becomes  very  suspicious  and  it 
is  no  easy  matter  to  get  a  photograph.  At  one  time 
when  I  tried  it,  I  could  not  for  the  life  of  me  see  the 
old  bird  on  the  nest  when  I  crept  up.  The  eggs  were 
warm,  and  I  knew  she  had  sneaked  off  when  she  heard 
me  coming,  so  I  laid  the  thread  away  out  into  the 
pasture  and  pulled  it  from  afar,  after  waiting  a  good 
long  time  to  give  her  the  chance  to  return.  Twice  I 
tried  it,  and  in  both  cases,  when  I  developed  the  nega- 
tive, I  saw  that  I  had  caught  the  sly  fox. 

The  Mockingbird,  celebrated  for  its  song,  belongs  to 

the  same  order  as  Catbird  and  Thrasher.     Though  it 

is  doubtless  the  best  singer  among  them,  these  others 

are  not  so  very  far  behind.     It  is  a  good  deal  like  the 

237 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

Catbird  in  appearance  and  in  some  of  its  traits.  I  have 
watched  and  heard  it  a  good  deal  in  the  South,  but  it 
also  comes  up  sparingly  into  the  Middle  States,  and  I 
have  met  it  as  far  north  as  Boston. 

And  now  for  the  most  wren-like  of  all  the  Troglody- 
tidce,  for  there  is  nothing  so  like  wrens  as  the  wrens 
themselves.  They  all  look  a  good  deal  alike,  little 
brown  fellows,  artful  dodgers  indeed,  that  run  into 
about  every  imaginable  crevice  or  cranny,  hunting  out 
insects  and  their  eggs  or  larvae,  surely  a  useful  tribe. 
Best  known  of  them  all,  and  most  beloved,  is  the  House 
Wren.  How  glad  we  are  in  May  to  hear  again  the 
merry,  bubbling  song  in  the  garden  and  around  the 
house,  and  in  due  time  to  see  the  little  people  hunting 
for  a  building-site.  Almost  any  sort  of  a  hole  will  do, 
in  a  building,  in  a  tree,  a  bird-box,  an  old  tin  can,  or 
any  crevice.  As  soon  as  they  have  chosen  the  place, 
they  go  right  to  work  to  fill  it  up  with  twigs,  in  the 
midst  of  which  they  make  a  soft  nest  of  grass  and 
feathers  and  the  like. 

Some  of  the  sites  which  they  select  are  perfectly 
ridiculous.  I  have  known  them  to  build  in  the  pocket 
of  a  coat  hung  up  in  a  shed,  and  in  a  hat  or  pot  laid 
on  a  shelf.  The  funniest  and  most  audacious  thing  I 
ever  saw  a  bird  do  I  am  almost  afraid  to  tell,  lest  I 
should  injure  my  reputation  for  truthfulness.  But, 
having  a  reliable  witness,  I  will  venture  to  tell  it.  I 
was  off  on  an  expedition  in  the  West  with  Dr.  L.  B. 
Bishop,  of  New  Haven,  Conn.,  a  well-known  ornithol- 
238 


Catbird  in  shrubbery.     "When  the  bird  comes  out  for  a  moment"  (p.  237). 


Catbird  on  nest.     Had  caught  the  sly  fox  (p.  237). 


House  Wren  entering  nest.     "Another  can  under  the  eaves"  (p.  439). 


House  Wren  emerging  from  nest  in  old  can.     "Ned  nailed  one  to  an  apple  tree' 
(p.  239). 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

ogist.  In  a  grove  by  our  camp  he  was  engaged  each 
day  for  about  a  week  in  skinning  birds.  The  guide 
had  provided  him  with  an  old  upholstered  chair,  the 
lining  of  which  hung  down  beneath.  While  the  learned 
doctor  sat  doing  up  bird  specimens  in  scientific  form, 
a  House  Wren  (of  the  race  called  Bewick's),  fearless  of 
being  itself  consecrated  to  science,  actually  went  to 
work  building  its  nest  in  the  lining  of  the  chair  while  the 
doctor  was  sitting  on  it,  finished  the  structure,  and  before 
we  moved  camp  had  laid  a  part  of  her  litter  of  eggs. 

These  wrens  seem  especially  fond  of  an  old  tin  can 
with  a  small  hole  in  one  end,  put  up  for  their  benefit, 
and  I  have  known  them  to  set  to  work  building  within 
half  an  hour  of  the  time  the  can  was  nailed  up.  Ned 
nailed  one  to  an  apple  tree,  about  five  feet  up  the 
trunk,  and  the  wrens  took  possession  and  raised  a 
brood.  Every  few  minutes  during  the  day  they  would 
feed  the  six  hungry  young,  which  gave  a  fine  oppor- 
tunity for  photographs.  I  stood  the  camera  boldly  up 
on  the  tripod  near  the  nest,  without  any  attempt  to 
conceal  it,  and  sat  a  little  way  off  holding  the  thread 
ready  to  pull,  throwing  light  upon  the  can  with  a  mirror. 
When  the  parent  was  entering  or  leaving  I  would  pull 
the  string  and  get  a  picture.  After  their  young  had 
gone,  the  pair  wanted  to  raise  a  second  brood,  in  July, 
and  began  looking  around  for  a  new  site,  as  the  old 
nest  swarmed  with  bird  lice.  Ned  nailed  up  another 
can  under  the  eaves  of  a  low  shed,  and  at  once  the 
wrens  went  to  work  building  in  it.  There  they  raised 
239 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

the  other  brood,  which  soon  became  as  lousy  as  the 
first  had  been. 

If  you  see  a  wren  in  midwinter  hopping  about  a 
brush  pile  or  a  stone  wall,  do  not  imagine  it  to  be  the 
familiar  House  Wren.  It  is  the  kind  known  as  the 
Winter  Wren,  distinguishable  from  the  other  by  having 
upper  parts  of  a  brighter,  reddish  brown.  It  breeds 
mostly  well  to  the  north,  in  the  dark  spruce  forests,  but 
Ned  and  I  met  two  pairs  of  them  in  early  July  in  a 
wild,  mountainous  part  of  Connecticut,  whither  we 
had  gone  to  explore  for  Northern  birds.  How  won- 
derfully these  males  did  sing,  a  tinkling,  bell-like 
warble,  that  lasted  each  time  I  should  think  as  much 
as  fifteen  seconds,  one  of  the  longest  bird  songs  I  have 
heard.  The  larger  Carolina  Wren  is  also  a  famous 
singer.  It  rarely  reaches  New  England,  but  appears  in 
the  Middle  States,  and  more  abundantly  as  we  proceed 
southward. 

We  have  two  more  wrens,  very  different  in  their 
habits  from  either  of  the  above — the  Long-billed  Marsh 
Wren  and  the  Short-billed  Marsh  Wren.  These  also 
are  artful  dodgers,  but  they  do  their  hiding  and  climb- 
ing amid  the  reeds  or  grass  of  the  marsh  or  meadow. 
Though  neither  of  them  are  as  gifted  singers  as  the 
others,  they  have  pleasing  little  ditties  which  add  to  the 
attractiveness  of  their  wet  surroundings.  The  Long- 
billed  kind  is  generally  much  the  more  common  and 
conspicuous  of  the  two.  One  sees  them  hopping  about 
among  the  reeds  or  rushes,  tails  sticking  straight  up  in 
240 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

jaunty  fashion,  singing  away  as  every  happy  little  wren 
should.  They  build  a  conspicuous  globular  nest  sus- 
pended well  up  among  the  reeds  or  rushes.  Entrance 
is  by  a  little  round  hole  in  one  side.  The  chamber  is 
softly  lined  with  plant  down,  and  rather  late  in  June 
contains  from  five  to  nine  very  dark  little  eggs  of  a 
mahogany-brown  color.  A  curious  trait  of  this  wren 
is  that  it  builds  a  number  of  dummy  nests,  apparently 
to  mislead  intruders.  One  will  often  examine  half  a 
dozen  nests  before  the  finished  and  occupied  one  is 
found. 

The  Short-billed  Marsh  Wren  is  similar  in  many  of 
its  habits,  but  is  even  more  secretive  and  mouse-like 
than  the  other.  It  keeps  more  to  low,  thick  meadow 
grass,  and  builds  a  nest  similar  to  that  of  the  other, 
but  low  down  in  a  tussock.  The  equally  numerous 
eggs  are,  however,  pure  white.  The  sitting  bird  wTill 
sneak  off  the  nest  and  be  hiding  in  the  grass  close  by, 
despite  all  one's  efforts  to  kick  it  out.  I  succeeded 
once  in  getting  a  photograph  of  one  near  its  nest  in  a 
meadow  by  setting  the  camera  focused  on  a  nearby 
bush  on  which  I  saw  it  several  times  alight.  Standing 
off  in  the  distance,  holding  the  thread  connected  with 
the  shutter,  I  had  a  friend  chase  the  little  rascal.  It 
took  short  flights  from  bush  to  bush,  until  once  it 
alighted  just  where  I  wanted  it.  Often  it  would  get 
just  under  the  bush,  and  I  would  walk  up  and  poke  at 
it  with  a  switch  to  try  to  make  it  fly  up  higher.  But. 
instead  it  would  run  like  a  mouse  off  into  the  grass. 
241 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

Between  the  wrens  and  thrushes  come  four  small 
groups  of  birds,  about  which  we  must  say  just  a  few 
words.  One  is  the  creeper  family,  of  which  we  have 
but  one  species  in  America,  our  Brown  Creeper,  that 
slender  little  brownish  fellow  with  a  rather  long  bill 
and  stiff  spiked  tail  which  we  see  in  the  colder  months 
running  up  the  trunks  of  trees,  uttering  faint  lisping 
sounds  as  it  does  so.  It  is  a  timid  little  creature  and 
is  pretty  hard  to  locate,  even  when  we  are  hearing  its 
deceptive  notes.  It  usually  nests  well  to  the  north, 
but  sometimes  as  far  south  as  southern  New  England, 
and  builds  behind  a  loose,  rotten  sheath  of  bark  on  a 
decaying  tree. 

Next  are  the  nuthatches,  two  of  which  we  have — 
White-breasted  and  Red-breasted  Nuthatches.  Their 
name  was  earned  by  skill  in  cracking  nuts.  They  are 
the  funny  little  blue-gray  fellows  that  climb  about  on 
the  trees  saying,  "ank,  ank,"  hanging  or  feeding  head 
down  as  easily  as  any  other  way.  The  smaller  Red- 
breast we  have  mostly  as  a  migrant  to  and  from  the 
North,  but  now  and  then  it  stays  in  winter.  The  White- 
breast  we  have  resident  with  us  the  year  round.  In 
winter  it  becomes  very  familiar  and  accepts  our  hospi- 
tality of  nuts,  crumbs,  or  suet.  It  is  not  a  bit  afraid 
of  the  camera,  and  many  a  person,  myself  for  one,  have 
photographed  it  by  focusing  the  camera  upon  the 
" lunch  counter"  and  pulling  the  thread  when  the  bird 
seems  to  be  posing  just  right.  Some  use  a  pneumatic 
tube  and  bulb,  but  this  device  cracks  and  leaks  air  or 


Short-billed  Marsh  Wren.     "Alighted  just  where  I  wanted  it"  (p.  241). 


Nest  of  Short-billed  Marsh  Wren.     "Builds  low  down  on  a  tussock"  (p.  241). 


Chickadees.     "Feeding  on  the  suet"  (p.  243). 


White-breasted  Nuthatch.     "Accepts  our  hospitality"  (p.  242) 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

fails  to  move  the  shutter,  and  I  very  much  prefer  a 
thread.  Quite  early  in  spring  friend  Nutty  ignores  our 
charity  and  makes  a  nest  in  a  hollow  limb  of  some 
shade  or  orchard  tree,  where  it  raises  a  family  of  from 
five  to  eight. 

The  sub-family  of  titmice  are  now  classed  with  the 
nuthatch  sub-family  in  the  family  Paridce,  or  titmice, 
and  well  so,  for  they  all  have  much  in  common  in  their 
mode  of  life. 

Our  common  little  Chickadee  is  enough  to  make  us 
think  well  of  this  group.  They  are  so  animated  and 
interesting  that  it  is  a  delight  to  have  them  about  our 
homes  in  the  winter,  feeding  on  the  suet.  Everyone 
ought  to  tie  or  nail  up  a  piece  of  fat  meat  for  the  birds, 
out  of  reach  of  cats,  and  as  an  investment  it  pays  big 
dividends  in  the  pleasure  which  their  company  in  the 
long,  cold  season  affords.  Like  the  nuthatch  they  are 
easy  to  photograph,  and  like  them  they  forsake  us  with 
the  passing  of  the  snow,  and,  betaking  themselves  to 
the  woods  and  swamps,  in  May  they  excavate  a  tiny 
burrow  in  a  rotten  stub,  in  my  experience  generally  a 
birch,  which  is  very  soft.  Like  the  nuthatches  also 
they  rear  large  families,  and  it  is  remarkable  how  the 
young  birds  escape  being  smothered,  for  they  fill  the 
hole  about  solid  full  when  they  are  well  grown.  If  we 
take  them  out  it  is  a  real  problem  how  to  get  them  all 
in  again. 

Toward  the  end  of  winter  the  Chickadee  has  a  fine 
trick  of  fooling  people  by  a  note  which  they  think  is 
243 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

made  by  the  Phoebe.  It  is  a  long-drawn,  plaintive 
whistle — "pee-wee-e,"  but  it  is  not  so  very  much  like 
the  Phoebe's  note,  if  one  could  hear  both  together. 
Yet  the  correspondent  of  the  local  country  paper  reports 
the  first  Phoebe  heard — though  never  seen ! — in  January 
or  February,  and  the  knowing  ones  smile.  In  Canada 
there  is  also  the  Hudsbnian  Chickadee,  which  wears  a 
brown  cap  instead  of  a  black  one,  and  says  "dee-dee" 
instead  of  "chicka-dee-dee,"  and  in  the  Middle  States 
and  southward  they  have  the  Tufted  Titmouse,  which 
has  a  topknot,  and  the  Carolina  Chickadee. 

In  still  another  group,  the  Sylviidce,  or  birds  of  the 
"Old  World  Warbler"  type,  we  have  several  dainty 
little  midgets,  next  in  size  to  the  hummers,  which  are 
very  interesting.  One  is  the  Blue-gray  Gnatcatcher, 
found  in  the  Middle  States  and  southward.  I  have  had 
no  opportunity  to  know  and  study  it  afield,  as  I  have 
the  two  other  species,  the  Kinglets — Golden-crowned 
and  Ruby-crowned.  They  are  both  tiny  birds,  greenish 
olive  above  and  white  beneath,  with  a  brilliant  crown 
color-patch  which  the  Manuals  describe,  which,  how- 
ever, is  lacking  in  the  female  and  immature  Ruby- 
crown.  They  are  spring  and  fall  migrants  with  us, 
sometimes  wintering.  How  such  fragile  little  mites  of 
birds  can  keep  from  freezing  in  cold  weather  is  a 
mystery.  They  are  fond  especially  of  evergreen  woods, 
but  appear  in  other  timber  as  well.  If  in  the  woods  one 
hears  repeated  faint  lisping  sounds  which  are  hard  to 
locate  in  the  treetops,  they  probably  are  made  either 
244 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

by  the  Brown  Creeper  while  running  up  some  trunk 
and  hiding  behind  it,  or  else  by  either  or  both  of  these 
Kinglets.  They  go  in  small  parties,  sometimes  the 
two  species  together,  and  often  in  company  with  the 
Chickadees,  flitting  merrily  from  branch  to  branch  in 
their  hunt  for  larvae,  lisping  away  in  their  almost 
insect-like  dialect.  In  northern  New  England  and 
Canada  they  build  globular  nests  of  moss,  with  side 
entrance,  suspended  well  out  on  the  limbs  of  evergreens 
in  the  forests. 

Now  we  come  to  the  thrushes,  another  of  our  rather 
puzzling  groups,  though  they  are  not  as  hard  to  master 
as  the  finches  or  warblers  in  that  we  have  not  nearly 
so  many  species  of  them.  In  the  Eastern  and  Middle 
districts  of  the  United  States  and  Canada  there  are  but 
eight  species  and  forms  to  learn,  and  most  of  these  are 
perfectly  distinct,  some  of  them  very  well  known.  For 
instance,  no  one  can  mistake  the  Robin  or  the  Blue- 
bird— these  are  both  thrushes.  Then  there  is  the 
familiar  Wood  Thrush,  the  bird  with  bright  reddish- 
brown  upper  parts  and  heavily  spotted  breast.  The 
common  Veery,  or  Wilson's  Thrush,  has  also  bright 
upper  parts,  though  less  so  than  the  preceding,  but 
smaller  and  fainter  markings  below.  The  Hermit 
Thrush  has  a  bright  rufous  tail,  much  brighter  than  the 
brown  of  the  back.  The  only  great  confusion  can 
occur  with  the  dark-backed  thrushes,  which  are  the 
Olive-backed  and  Alice's — the  latter  having  under  it 
another  form  or  geographical  race  known  as  BicknelPs 
245 


THRUSH   COUSINS 

Thrush,  the  only  difference  being  that  it  averages  a 
little  brighter  and  smaller  than  the  Alice's  Thrush. 
Both  these  two  species  have  upper  parts  dark  olive 
brown  and  light  but  spotted  under-parts;  they  differ 
mainly  in  that  the  Alice's  Thrush  has  the  light  color 
of  the  under-parts,  throat,  sides  of  head,  and  eye-ring, 
pure  white,  while  in  the  Olive-backed  Thrush  these 
parts  have  a  buffy  suffusion. 

If  the  bird  student  can  bear  these  points  of  the 
thrushes  in  mind,  there  will  be  little  trouble  in  identify- 
ing them,  if  one  can  only  get  a  good  view  of  the  birds. 
But,  "aye,  there's  the  rub."  The  thrushes,  all  except 
the  Robin  and  Bluebird,  are  timid,  retiring  creatures, 
fond  of  deep  woods  or  swampy  woodland  solitudes. 
The  latter  are  especially  the  Veery's  choice,  and  we 
can  oftener  hear  than  see  him,  as  he  utters  his  ordinary 
"whee-u"  call,  or  chants  his  simple  "veery-veery-veery" 
lay.  All  the  thrushes  are  good  singers,  with  flute-like 
tones,  and  more  continuous  and  elaborate  songs  than 
most  birds.  The  Hermit  Thrush  is  the  finest  singer 
of  them  all,  with  the  Wood  Thrush  as  a  close  second, 
and  honorable  mention  for  the  efforts  of  the  Olive- 
backed  and  Alice's  Thrushes.  The  Robin's  familiar 
outpourings  have  a  homely  beauty  and  strike  a  re- 
sponsive chord  in  all  hearts,  while  few  sounds  of 
Nature  delight  us  more  than  the  ethereal  seolian  harp 
of  the  Bluebird,  especially  as  heard  from  the  skies  in 
March  mingling  with  the  sighing  of  the  cool  northwest 
wind — our  harbinger  of  spring. 
246 


THRUSH   COUSINS 

The  Bluebird  is  usually  the  first  thrush  to  arrive,  fol- 
lowed soon,  or  even  accompanied,  by  the  Robin.  The 
next  to  come  is  the  hardy  Hermit  Thrush  during  the 
first  half  of  April.  We  find  it  searching  for  larvae  among 
the  dead  leaves  in  the  woods,  and  sometimes  I  have 
met  it  when  Ned  and  I  were  gathering  the  first  blossoms 
of  the  ever-welcome  trailing  arbutus.  Early  in  spring, 
it  is  also  late  in  fall,  and  it  appears  mostly  as  a  migrant, 
though  I  have  found  it  as  far  south  as  Connecticut  in 
the  breeding  season  in  high  mountainous  wooded 
regions.  The  Wood  Thrush  comes  rather  late  in 
April,  followed  by  the  Veery  in  early  May,  and  both  of 
these  beautiful  species  remain  with  us  to  breed.  About 
the  middle  of  May  the  Olive-backed  and  Alice's 
Thrushes  usually  appear,  in  the  height  of  the  warbler 
migration,  soon  to  pass  us  by  for  the  silent  northern 
spruce  forests. 

The  Bluebird  is  the  first  of  the  group  to  go  to  nesting. 
Early  in  April  they  begin  to  build  in  the  bird-box,  or 
the  hollow  limb  or  woodpecker's  hole  in  the  orchard, 
by  the  roadside,  or  in  swamp  or  pasture.  By  the  tenth 
of  the  month  some  pairs  have  their  five  pale  blue  eggs. 
Ordinarily  they  raise  at  least  two  broods,  and  it  is 
August  before  all  of  them  are  through  with  these 
household  cares.  Then  they  gather  into  flocks  and 
have  a  good  easy  time  here  till  they  leave  us  in  Novem- 
ber. It  is  pleasant  to  have  them  nest  on  our  premises, 
and  it  is  well  worth  while  to  put  up  boxes  for  their  use. 
The  surest  form  of  architecture  to  attract  them  is  a 
247 


THRUSH   COUSINS 

section  of  a  hollow  limb,  closed  except  for  one  quite 
small  hole  in  the  side,  and  nailed  upright  in  a  tree. 

Soon  after  the  Bluebird,  the  Robins  get  busy  with 
housekeeping,  from  April  20th  and  on.  Everyone  is 
familiar  with  their  operations,  and  knows  of  the  curious 
sites  which  they  select  for  nests.  In  my  garden  and 
premises  a  pair  has  built  on  the  piazza  in  the  woodbine, 
another  on  a  branch  extending  over  the  front  walk,  and 
two  pairs  close  together  at  the  same  time  in  a  shed. 
They  are  fond  of  the  apple  orchard,  and  a  hole  in  a 
bank  by  the  roadside  is  quite  attractive.  One  foolish 
pair  built,  flat  on  the  ground  by  a  roadside  under  a 
projection  of  turf,  and  a  kindly  neighbor  had  to  put 
some  branches  in  front  of  it  to  keep  away  cats.  The 
mother  bird  was  so  shy  that  she  would  hop  out  whenever 
anyone  passed  by,  but  for  a  wonder  she  raised  her 
brood  of  three.  This  is  the  usual  number  for  the 
second  brood,  but  it  is  generally  four  for  the  first,  and 
very  rarely  five.  I  only  remember  seeing  three  nests 
with  five  eggs,  out  of  the  many  hundreds  I  have  ex- 
amined. Once  Ned  put  his  hand  into  a  Robin's  nest 
to  see  what  was  in  it  and  broke  an  egg,  the  only  time 
I  ever  knew  him  to  have  such  a  mishap.  When  he 
looked  in,  he  saw  that  it  was  a  rare  set  of  five.  How- 
ever, the  bird  still  had  the  usual  number! 

Since  the  Robin  builds  so  near  houses  it  is  easy  and 

interesting  to  watch  the  family  life.     One  of  the  prettiest 

sights  in  bird  life,  I  think,  is  to  see  the  mother  Robin, 

on  a  rainy  day,  stand  in  the  nest  and  spread  out  her 

248 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

wings  over  the  youngsters  like  an  umbrella,  thus 
keeping  them  dry,  despite  the  downpour. 

The  Veery  generally  builds  on  the  ground  in  the 
woods,  among  shrubbery,  or  very  near  mother  earth 
in  a  clump  of  low  bushes.  Generally  it  is  not  easy  to 
find  the  nest  except  by  flushing  the  brooding  bird  from 
it,  but  in  this  way  I  have  often  found  nests  and  photo- 
graphed them.  The  Veery  will  let  one  come  quite 
close  before  leaving,  and  I  have  tried  to  snap  her  by 
walking  up  with  the  camera  in  hand,  but  she  could  not 
quite  muster  up  courage  to  wait  for  me.  Sometime, 
when  I  get  round  to  it,  I  imagine  it  will  not  be  so  very 
hard  to  get  a  picture  by  setting  the  camera.  I  had  a 
good  chance  this  last  season  and  would  have  tried  it, 
had  not  some  bad  boys  broken  up  the  nest.  It  was  on 
the  edge  of  a  little  wood  road  quite  near  home,  in  some 
low  weeds,  about  a  foot  from  the  ground,  right  in  plain 
sight  of  any  passer-by.  It  is  strange  what  pleasure 
anyone  can  find  in  destroying  a  bird's  home  and  eggs 
without  purpose,  not  even  for  collecting,  but  just  in 
wanton  destruction.  How  infinitely  much  more  real 
fun  it  would  be  to  watch  this  family  from  the  first  to 
the  time  when  the  young  were  grown — seeing  when 
each  egg  was  laid,  how  long  it  took  to  hatch,  how  the 
parents  fed  the  young,  how  long  it  took  them  to  grow 
up,  how  they  left  the  nest,  and  so  on.  But  to  destroy 
a  bird's  nest  "for  the  fun  of  it"  is  lower  than  brutish, 
for  even  a  "rascal"  crow  or  jay  robs  nests  for  food.  •• 

The  nest  of  the  Wood  Thrush  is  generally  built  in 
249 


THRUSH    COUSINS 

the  fork  of  a  sapling  or  low  tree  in  the  woods,  from  four 
to  eight  feet  up.  It  is  quite  bulky,  stiffened  with  mud 
like  the  Robin's  nest,  and  the  three  to  five  blue  eggs 
look  almost  exactly  like  the  eggs  of  that  bird.  The 
dead  leaves  of  which  the  foundation  for  the  nest  is 
usually  made,  though,  "give  it  away,"  as  to  identity. 
The  incubating  Wood  Thrush  varies  individually  as 
to  tameness,  but  generally  it  will  allow  a  near,  and 
sometimes  a  close  approach.  Several  times  I  have 
been  able  to  place  my  tripod  and  camera  very  near  a 
nest  and  take  pictures  without  flushing  the  birds,  but 
only  because  I  made  every  motion  very  slowly  and 
carefully,  taking  a  long  time  to  do  the  work.  On  one 
such  occasion  Ned  watched  me,  and  thought  it  looked 
easy,  but  when  he  tried  it,  away  went  the  bird,  simply 
because  he  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry.  In  such  work 
with  timid  birds,  after  every  new  movement  one  must 
pause  for  the  bird  to  become  accustomed  to  that  con- 
dition, ere  it  is  ready  for  the  next  innovation.  One 
mother  Wood  Thrush  was  so  obliging  that  she  let  me 
reach  within  one  foot  of  her  and  bend  aside  leaves 
without  being  startled  to  flight.  But  the  next  time  I 
went,  when  she  had  young,  I  could  not  get  within 
fifteen  yards  of  her.  The  best  rule  in  working  with 
birds  is  to  take  advantage  of  their  varying  moods,  and 
when  a  bird  is  "nice,"  use  the  present  opportunity  for 
all  it  is  worth,  as  though  there  would  never  be  another, 
for,  indeed,  very  likely  there  never  will  be  just  such 
another  again. 

250 


Spotted  Sandpiper  scolding.     "Even  more  solicitous  when  they  have  hatched' 

(p.  254). 


Semiahnated  Sandpiper  feeding.     "Along  the  shores  of    .    .    .    lakes"  (p.  253). 


CHAPTER  XV 

WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

(Wading  and  Swimming  Birds) 

THE  water-birds  as  a  class,  both  waders  and 
swimmers,  though  often  neglected  by  bird 
students,  to  me  seem  exceedingly  fascinating, 
as  much  so  as  any  other  group  of  birds,  if  not  even 
more.  This  may  be  because  I  am  almost  a  sort  of 
water-bird  myself.  I  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  the 
ducks  because  I  swim,  and  for  the  white-winged  gulls 
because  for  years  I  have  loved  to  spread  the  white 
yacht  sails  to  the  breeze  and  skim  over  the  brine.  And 
as  for  the  wading-birds,  the  mysteries  of  swamp  and 
morass  make  strong  appeal  to  my  imagination,  and  I 
love  to  wade  and  scramble  about  and  enjoy  the  free 
unconventionality  of  the  realm  where  land  and  water 
intermingle.  Such  things,  too,  appeal  to  a  boy  like 
Ned,  as  they  are  bound  to  appeal  to  any  lively  boy. 
I  think  and  hope  that  I  must  still  be  a  boy,  and  I  mean 
to  be  one  as  long  as  I  live. 

One  great  trouble  in  studying  the  water-birds  is  their 
general  scarcity.     No  matter  how  shy  and  retiring  they 
are,  if  they  only  were  somewhere,  I  would  risk  the 
251 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

enthusiast's  ability  to  get  in  touch  with  them.  But  no 
one  can  see  a  thing  which  does  not  exist.  Birds  of  this 
class  are  large  enough  to  be  conspicuous,  and  some  of 
them  are  good  to  eat,  and  both  these  facts  have  served 
to  invite  persecution  from  gunners.  So  it  is  a  lament- 
able fact  that  most  of  the  wading  or  swimming  birds, 
certainly  in  inland  localities,  can  seldom  be  seen.  You 
cannot  walk  out  any  day  and  say  you  will  watch  ducks, 
herons,  or  shore-birds.  Unless  you  know  a  spot  where 
some  one  pair  or  species  breeds,  you  might  go  forth 
dozens  of  times  and  not  see  one  solitary  water-bird. 
Some  time,  we  hope,  there  may  be  better  conditions, 
as  public  sentiment  is  being  aroused  against  the  wanton 
extermination  of  our  beautiful  wild  bird-life,  and  many 
excellent  laws  are  being  enacted  and  enforced. 

It  would  make  this  book  too  large  if  I  were  to  go 
into  full  accounts  of  the  wading  and  swimming  birds, 
so  I  must  simply  and  briefly  mention  the  birds  of  this 
class  which  may  be  found  in  any  typical  inland  country 
town,  and  refer  my  readers  to  my  other  books  where  I 
describe  these  birds  and  their  ways,  both  in  text  and  in 
photographs.  "Among  the  Water-Fowl"  deals  with 
the  swimming-birds,  both  of  the  ocean  and  of  inland 
waters.  Additional  studies  of  these  are  given  in 
"Wild  Wings"  with  extended  accounts  of  the  shore- 
birds,  besides  other  material.  The  system  of  classi- 
fication now  accepted  begins  with  our  lowest  order  of 
birds,  nearest  to  reptiles  and  fishes,  the  grebes,  and 
works  up  to  the  highest,  the  thrushes.  In  this  book  we 
252 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

started  in  part  way  up  the  scale,  with  the  gallinaceous 
birds,  so  now  we  will  work  backward  thence  to  the 
beginning. 

The  first  group  to  mention  in  this  plan  is  the  shore- 
birds,  and  of  these,  unfortunately,  there  are  now  few, 
indeed,  that  visit  our  inland  towns.  A  century  or  less 
ago,  for  instance,  almost  every  barnyard  had  its  Kil- 
deers  (plovers),  and  every  field  its  Upland  Plovers 
(Bartramian  Sandpipers).  But  to-day  they  are  gone, 
save  in  rare  instances.  Great  flocks  of  the  beautiful 
Golden  Plover  used  to  descend  upon  the  fields  in  their 
southward  flight  in  late  August  and  September,  but 
now  they  are  all  but  extinct.  Too  bad,  too  bad !  Along 
the  shores  of  the  larger  ponds  or  lakes  we  may  occa- 
sionally see  a  few  Semipalmated  Plovers,  or  Ring- 
necks,  occasional  Least  and  Semipalmated  Sandpipers, 
perhaps  in  small  flocks,  and  the  Greater  and  Lesser 
Yellow-legs  on  shores  or  in  meadows.  The  time  for 
any  of  these  is  August  and  September,  and  for  the 
Greater  Yellow-legs  even  October. 

The  only  shore-bird  which  breeds  is  the  Spotted 
Sandpiper,  the  little  bird  popularly  called  "Teeter," 
which  runs  along  the  margin  of  pond  or  river,  teetering 
its  body  up  and  down  in  nervous  fashion.  Medical 
authorities  decry  our  "teetering'*  with  the  rocking 
chair  as  conducive  to  nervous  disorders,  but  this  little 
chap  teeters  all  his  life  and  does  not  appear  to  suffer 
for  it.  Possibly  it  might  add  fifty  per  cent,  to  his  years 
if  we  could  teach  him  to  calm  himself  and  "be  aisy!'y 
253 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

By  early  June  each  sandpiper  pair  has  scratched  a 
little  hollow,  lined  it  with  a  few  straws,  and  laid  four 
pointed,  heavily  spotted  eggs.  The  mother  flutters 
and  limps  away  when  you  surprise  her  upon  them,  and 
is  even  more  solicitous  when  they  have  hatched  and 
the  odd  little  chicks  are  hiding  from  you,  squatted 
flat  on  the  ground,  where  it  is  very  hard  to  see 
them. 

One  day  Ned  and  his  mother  were  walking  along  the 
river  bank,  following  a  cart  road,  wThen  away  fluttered 
a  Spotted  Sandpiper,  and  there,  just  beside  the  road, 
under  some  weeds,  was  the  nest  with  the  usual  four 
eggs.  Of  course  I  had  to  go  and  see  it,  and  Ned  very 
proudly  brought  me  to  the  find.  Off  went  the  anxious 
bird,  and  I  could  then  see  her  running  along  the  pebbly 
river  margin,  saying  "peet-weet,  peet-weet."  After 
setting  the  camera  on  the  ground  near  by,  with  some 
rocks  piled  over  it,  we  hid  in  the  bushes  and  watched 
for  the  bird's  return,  ready  to  pull  the  thread.  We  had 
been  quiet  for  only  a  few  minutes  when  she  came 
cautiously  walking  back,  teetering  almost  constantly. 
She  went  right  past  the  camera  without  noticing  it, 
then  to  her  nest,  and  settled  down,  poking  and  arranging 
the  eggs  with  her  bill.  At  the  snap  of  the  shutter  she 
darted  off.  I  set  it  again,  and  she  soon  came  back. 
After  securing  several  pictures,  we  went  away  and  left 
her  in  peace.  This  nest  was  located,  as  is  generally 
the  case,  near  open  water,  but  quite  often  a  mere 
brook  will  suffice,  and  not  infrequently  the  location  is 
254 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

well  back  from  any  water  at  all.  I  have  found  nests 
in  such  places  as  fields  of  potatoes  or  corn. 

There  is  another  species  closely  related  to  the  last 
which  should  not  be  confused  with  it — the  Solitary 
Sandpiper.  In  May,  or  in  August  or  September,  we 
are  liable  now  and  then  to  meet  one  feeding  along  the 
muddy  or  spongy  edge  of  some  little  pond  hole,  or  in 
almost  any  sort  of  a  wet  place.  Sometimes  there  will 
be  a  pair  of  them,  but  more  often  the  bird  is  alone, 
solitary  in  reality,  as  in  name.  It  nests  in  the  far  north, 
and  until  very  recently  its  breeding  habits  were  un- 
known, till  its  eggs  began  to  be  discovered,  in  the 
Canadian  Northwest,  in  abandoned  Robins'  nests  up 
in  trees.  It  is  not  known  to  breed  in  the  United  States. 
One  can  tell  it  from  the  Spotted  Sandpiper  by  its 
much  darker  back,  and  from  the  Yellow-legs  by  its 
greenish  legs.  It  is  a  beautiful,  gentle  bird,  and  I  love 
to  sit  and  watch  one  feed  in  a  bog,  so  graceful,  so  neat 
in  person,  with  the  bearing  of  real  refinement — sand- 
piper good  breeding. 

Next  comes  the  order  of  marsh-dwellers,  the  Paludi- 
coloB  of  science.  Of  these  our  principal  group  is  the 
rails.  These  are  birds  which  the  average  person 
never  sees  and  has  never  heard  of.  But  if  one  find 
the  right  place,  some  very  oozy  bog,  overgrown  with 
"cat-tails,"  and  will  throw  a  stone  into  it,  so  as  to  make 
a  loud  splash,  like  as  not  there  will  instantly  arise  a 
series  of  loud,  wailing,  craking  cries.  These  are  the 
rails,  not  fence  rails,  but  real  live  ones,  called  thusx 
255 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

perhaps,  because  they  are  narrow  across,  "thin  as  a 
rail,"  so  that  they  can  the  more  easily  slip  through  the 
dense  tangles  in  which  they  live.  One  may  suppose 
that  the  fat  ones  got  stuck,  but  the  thin  survived,  and 
gave  rise  to  a  thin  race! 

With  us  there  are  two  common  kinds  of  rails — the 
Virginia  Rail  and  the  Sora,  the  latter  being  the  best 
known,  especially  to  sportsmen,  for  rails  are  hunted 
with  dogs,  and  their  flesh  is  good  eating,  as  those  things 
go.  But  in  these  days  of  decreasing  bird-life,  the  true 
bird-lover  is  more  inclined  to  look  to  the  butcher  for 
meat  and  to  the  wild  birds  for  pleasure  of  eye  and  ear 
rather  than  of  palate.  To  esteem  a  bird  in  accordance 
with  its  edibility  is  getting  to  seem  a  little  uncouth  and 
old-fashioned.  A  while  ago  I  was  showing  to  a  gen- 
tleman of  foreign  extraction  some  of  my  best  bird 
pictures,  enlarged  and  hand-colored,  which  I  really 
thought  were  pretty  nice.  As  I  showed  him  each 
picture,  his  one  and  repeated  question  was,  "Is  it  good 
to  eat?"  If  I  said  "yes,"  he  looked  rather  pleased; 
if  I  said  "no,"  he  gave  a  sort  of  impatient  grunt  of 
disgust — no  good!  I  soon  began  to  have  "tired  feel- 
ings," and  was  not  sorry  to  depart. 

These  rails  are  rather  small  birds,  about  the  size  of 
the  Bobolink,  short  of  tail  but  long  of  toe,  and  well 
developed  in  the  legs.  The  Sora  is  dark  colored,  with 
short  bill,  while  the  Virginia  Rail,  though  but  a  trifle 
larger,  can  be  told  by  its  reddish-brown  color  and 
longer  bill.  Neither  of  them  likes  to  fly,  and  they  only 
256 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

do  so  when  migrating,  or  when  compelled  by  the  close 
approach  of  some  intruder.  Then  they  will  flutter 
feebly  up  and  drop  into  the  grass  before  going  many 
rods.  They  have  their  run- ways  through  the  tangle 
of  grass  and  weed,  and  run  and  climb  with  the  greatest 
of  nimbleness.  They  are  especially  active  at  twilight, 
and  perhaps  at  night.  In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  I 
have  seen  them  appear  again  and  again  at  the  edge  of 
some  marsh,  or  scurry  across  open  spaces  from  one 
clump  of  reeds  to  another,  and  I  have  seen  them  run 
on  lily  pads.  I  have  found  their  nests,  not  so  much 
in  the  thickest  tangles  as  near  the  border  of  a  meadow 
or  bog,  in  the  rather  sparse  meadow  grass,  where  the 
water  is  only  a  few  inches  deep.  They  build  up 
a  little  hollowed  platform  of  dead  grass  among  the 
green  stems,  slightly  above  the  water,  and  draw  and 
tie  the  ends  of  the  grass  over  it,  to  form  a  nice  little 
canopy.  All  rails  lay  a  large  number  of  eggs,  six  to 
thirteen  ordinarily,  and  once  I  found  sixteen  in  a 
Sora's  nest. 

The  young  of  all  rails  with  which  I  am  acquainted 
are  covered  with  a  black  down,  and,  almost  from  birth, 
are  great  runners.  Once  I  tried  to  catch  a  young  rail. 
It  ran  out  into  a  place  where  there  were  few  stems  of 
grass,  almost  an  open  mud-flat.  I  sprinted  along, 
plastering  myself  with  mud,  but  sure  of  my  prize, 
which  I  only  wanted  to  photograph  before  releasing. 
Just  as  I  thought  I  could  seize  it,  suddenly  it  stopped, 
out  there  in  the  open,  with  next  to  nothing  to  conceal 
257 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

it.  But  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  see  where  it  had 
gone,  and  I  finally  had  to  give  it  up. 

When  I  was  of  high  school  age  I  took  a  companion 
of  about  my  years  into  a  famous  rail-bog,  where  many 
pairs  nested,  as  he  wanted  to  find  some  of  their  eggs. 
The  place  was  a  sort  of  bottomless  ooze,  and  we  had 
to  lay  out  planks  and  step  on  them.  Though  I  had 
cautioned  him,  he  soon  slipped  off  and  got  into  the 
mud.  We  were  rather  near  shore,  and  he  was  so 
frightened  that  instead  of  climbing  back  on  the  plank, 
he  started  to  wade  ashore,  despite  my  protests.  Deeper 
and  deeper  he  sank,  till  he  was  in  all  over.  Now  he 
was  frantic  with  terror  and  began  to  cry.  I  thought 
surely  he  would  drown,  but  he  finally  crawled  out  on 
shore,  plastered  with  black  oozy  slime  from  head  to 
foot.  Choking  with  mud  and  sobs,  in  about  equal 
proportions,  he  started  for  home  spluttering  that  I'd 
never  have  the  chance  to  get  him  into  such  a  scrape 
again — how  ungrateful!  This  was  just  on  the  border 
of  the  city  of  Boston,  and  I  badly  .wanted  to  hear  all 
about  his  trip  through  the  city  streets  in  that  rig.  But 
he  hardly  would  speak  to  me  after  that,  much  less  go 
into  detail.  This  incident  goes  to  show  that  if  anyone 
is  afraid  of  mud  and  water,  he  or  she  had  better  let  the 
rails  alone  and  study  the  safe  and  darling  little  chippy- 
birds  ! 

There  are  some  other  rails  that  must  receive  only 
scant  mention.  The  Little  Black  Rail  and  the  Yellow 
Rail  are  both  very  rare,  and  have  almost  more  the 
258 


Nest  of  Sora.     "They  build  a  little  hollowed  platform5'  (p.  257). 


Young  American  Bitterns.     "A  rude  nest  of  stems"  (p.  261). 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

habits  of  meadow  mice  than  birds,  as  they  run  through 
the  grass,  and  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  make  them  fly. 
Sometimes  they  are  caught  alive  by  the  hunting  dogs. 
Then  there  is  the  large  species  called  King  Rail,  found 
in  Middle  and  Southern  States,  seldom  plentifully, 
and  the  Clapper  Rail,  or  Marsh  Hen,  of  the  salt  marshes 
along  the  coast  from  Connecticut  southward.  The 
Florida  Gallinule  is  much  like  a  large  rail,  and  is  found 
sparingly  in  fresh-water  bogs,  being  common  only  in 
the  South,  where  I  have  found  their  nests,  similar  to 
the  rails',  among  the  rushes  in  bogs.  The  American 
Coot,  sometimes  called  "Blue  Peter,"  or  Mud  Hen,  is 
rather  common,  in  the  same  sort  of  haunts,  in  migra- 
tion. Having  lobed  feet  and  compact  plumage,  it 
swims,  as  does  the  webless  gallinule,  and  is  often  mis- 
taken for  a  duck.  It  is  a  gray  bird  about  the  size  of  a 
pullet,  with  bill  like  the  latter  and  a  patch  of  white 
above  its  base.  They  bob  their  heads  back  and  forth 
as  they  swim.  Out  in  the  Northwest  I  have  found 
hundreds  of  their  nests  in  the  great  sloughs  in  the 
reeds,  basket-like  affairs  of  reed  stems,  with  from  six 
to  a  dozen  finely  speckled  eggs. 

Next  we  have  the  heron  tribe,  and  interesting  birds 
they  are.  The  Great  Blue  Heron  is  the  biggest  of 
them,  so  tall  that  it  gets  the  popular  name  of  Blue 
Crane,  which  is  inaccurate,  for  it  is  no  crane  at  all. 
They  are  not  plenty,  and  nest  now  mostly  in  the  North, 
but  also  in  wild  Southern  swamps,  in  both  of  which 
regions  I  have  found  their  nests,  generally  in  colonies,  ' 
259 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

and  up  giant  trees.  But  we  may  now  and  then  run 
across  a  solitary  Great  Blue  by  the  edge  of  some 
body  of  water  or  feeding  in  a  morass.  They  are 
among  the  wariest  of  birds,  and  will  not  allow  a 
person  to  come  anywhere  near  them — not  if  they 
know  it. 

Another  well-known  Northern  heron,  famous  for  its 
great  nesting-colonies,  is  the  Black-crowned  Night 
Heron,  familiarly  called  Quawk.  On  the  seacoast 
they  are  more  common  than  in  the  interior,  in  which 
latter  region  they  are  very  locally  distributed.  In  the 
locality  where  I  now  live  they  are  seldom  seen,  except 
in  migration,  when  I  sometimes  hear  the  harsh  "quak, 
quak,"  as  one  flies  over  in  the  evening,  high  in  air. 
I  have  often  been  into  their  rookeries  in  lonely  swamps 
where  from  a  dozen  to  thousands  of  pairs  had  built 
their  rude  nests,  sometimes  half  a  dozen  or  more  in  one 
tree.  Everything  there  is  nasty  and  ill-smelling.  One 
of  my  earliest  recollections  of  herons  is  of  climbing  to 
one  of  these  nests,  in  a  small  colony  in  a  cedar  swamp, 
and  having  the  young,  according  to  their  habit,  vomit 
out  partly  digested  fish  from  their  crops  into  my  face 
as  I  climbed.  This  bird  is  of  good  size,  the  adults 
quite  light  in  color,  but  the  immature  birds  are  of  a 
dull  mottled  brown. 

The  American  Bittern,  Stake-driver,  or  Post-driver, 

as  it  is  variously  called,  is  of  about  the  same  size,  and 

somewhat  resembles  the  young  of  the  preceding,  only 

the  brown  is  of  a  darker,  richer  shade,  and  the  adult 

260 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

has  a  prominent  black  stripe  down  each  side  of  the 
neck.  This  is  the  bird  which  makes  the  booming  or 
pumping  noise  out  in  the  meadow  or  bog.  In  such 
places  it  lives,  never  in  woods,  nor  in  colonies,  unless 
3ne  can  call  a  few  pairs  scattered  over  a  big  swamp 
such.  They  nest  with  us,  and  each  pair  makes  a  rude 
nest  of  stems  on  the  wet  ground  in  the  bog,  gener- 
ally among  reeds  or  rushes,  sometimes  grass,  and 
lays  from  four  to  six  large  deep  olive  brown  eggs, 
very  different  from  the  pale  blue  eggs  of  the  other 
herons. 

Like  it  in  some  respects  in  haunts  and  habits  is  its 
relative,  the  Least  Bittern,  a  tiny  fellow  that  is  much 
like  a  rail  in  size  and  appearance,  though  its  long  neck 
serves  to  distinguish  it.  It  is  yellowish  in  color,  with 
dark  greenish  back  and  crown.  Its  life  is  spent  slipping 
about  amid  the  tangles  of  the  bog,  where  it  builds  its 
frail  platform  of  a  nest  suspended  between  the  reed 
stems  in  a  clump,  usually  three  or  four  feet  up.  The 
four  or  five  eggs  are  bluish-white. 

Probably  the  best  known  and  most  generally  dis- 
tributed of  our  herons  is  the  common  Green  Heron,  or 
Poke,  a  rather  small,  dark-colored  species.  Any 
wood-bordered  pond  or  wooded  or  bushy  swamp  is 
liable  to  have  from  one  to  several  pairs  inhabiting  it. 
They  live  on  small  fish,  frogs,  lizards,  and  the  like, 
and  nest  in  solitary  fashion,  either  in  some  low  ever- 
green in  the  woods  just  up  from  the  pond,  or  in  a  bush 
out  in  the  swamp.  When  one  approaches  the  nest, 
261 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

the  old  bird  will  fly  away  and  then  return  and  perch  a 
little  way  off  and  say  all  sorts  of  unutterable  things  in 
the  uncouth  heron-language. 

In  a  certain  swamp  near  my  home  several  pairs  of 
Green  Heron  usually  nest.  The  place  is  a  tract  of 
alder  bushes  overflowed  from  the  pond.  The  water 
is  from  knee  to  waist-deep,  and  the  bushes  grow  out 
of  the  water.  Once  I  undertook  to  photograph  a 
Green  Heron  on  a  nest  which  was  favorably  situated, 
very  low  down.  I  set  up  the  tripod  near  by,  under  the 
next  bush,  tied  the  focus-cloth  about  the  top  to  suggest 
a  camera,  decked  it  with  leaves,  and  left  it  over  night, 
for  the  heron  to  become  accustomed  to  it.  Next 
morning  I  found  her  on  the  nest  all  right,  so  I  sub- 
stituted my  camera  for  the  cloth,  covered  and  arranged 
it  with  thread  attachment,  and  then  hid  about  thirty 
yards  away  between  three  tree  sprouts  which  grew 
from  a  stump,  a  nice  little  island  nook.  After  about 
half  an  hour's  wait,  the  heron  came  sneaking  back, 
climbing  almost  parrot-like  from  bush  to  bush.  All  the 
time  she  was  jerking  her  little  tail  in  such  a  nervous, 
comical  fashion  that  I  felt  like  laughing  right  out, 
which,  of  course,  would  not  do  if  I  was  to  get  a  photo- 
graph. After  some  hesitation  she  stepped  into  the 
nest  and  settled  down,  but  the  instant  I  drew  in  my 
slack  of  thread  she  saw  it  move,  and  departed  in  as 
great  terror  as  though  I  had  fired  a  cannon.  After 
awhile  she  plucked  up  courage  to  return,  and  this  time 
I  saw  to  it  that  the  shutter  would  spring  the  instant  I 


Green  Heron  and  nest.     "Came  sneaking  back"  (p. 


Green  Heron  incubating.     "Plucked  up  courage  to  return"  (p.  262). 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

pulled.  I  finally  "got"  her,  three  times  on  the  nest 
and  once  just  stepping  upon  it. 

These  are  the  five  common  herons  that  are  ordinarily 
seen  in  the  Eastern  and  Middle  States.  A  number  of 
other  species  are  well  known  in  the  South,  and  nearly 
all  of  them  have  appeared  accidentally  as  far  north  as 
New  England,  particularly  the  Little  Blue  Heron,  the 
American  Egret  (celebrated  for  its  aigrette  plumes), 
and  more  rarely  the  Yellow-crowned  Night  Heron. 

We  come  now  to  the  swimming-birds,  and  find  the 
AnatidfE,  or  ducks  and  geese,  in  order.  Almost  every- 
one is  interested  in  wild  ducks.  If  a  flock  are  known 
to  alight  in  a  pond,  it  is  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood, 
and,  unfortunately,  every  person  owning  a  gun  is  crazy 
to  get  a  shot.  Consequently  they  are  scarce  in  our 
Eastern  districts,  and  with  the  growth  of  population 
are  becoming  more  and  more  so.  It  seems  so  strange 
and  delightful  out  in  the  Northwest  to  see  companies 
of  wild  ducks  swimming  about  in  small  ponds  or  pools 
right  by  the  homes  of  settlers,  fearless  and  unmolested, 
raising  their  broods  in  the  neighboring  grassy  sloughs, 
practically  in  the  barnyard  pasture.  How  delightful 
if  it  could  be  so  here!  Once,  indeed,  recently,  I  came 
upon  a  brood  of  young  Black  Ducks,  with  their  mother, 
within  two  minutes'  walk  of  my  house,  on  the  edge  of 
a  meadow,  but  that  was  a  rare  treat. 

This  species  just  mentioned,  properly  the  Dusky 
Duck,  but  popularly  known  as  the  Black  Duck,  is  the 
best  known  and  most  common  fresh-water  duck  of  the 
263 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

eastern  part  of  our  country.  They  are  shy  birds  and 
keep  pretty  well  out  of  sight  by  day  in  the  swamps. 
At  dusk  they  begin  to  fly  about  and  come  into  the 
ponds  to  swim  and  feed.  I  have  stood  silently  on  the 
edge  of  a  morass,  listened  to  their  subdued  quackings 
as  they  fed,  heard  the  whistle  of  their  wings,  and  seen 
their  shadowy  forms  as  they  passed  overhead.  I  have 
found  their  nests,  too,  now  and  then,  but  always  by 
accident.  The  nest  is  always  on  the  ground,  hidden 
among  the  rank  vegetation,  or  by  the  edge  of  a  body 
of  water  among  the  rushes  or  under  a  bush.  Not 
long  ago  I  was  shown  one  under  an  isolated  thorn 
bush  right  out  in  an  open  field,  not  far  back  from  the 
bank  of  a  river.  A  trout  fisherman  happened  along 
and  flushed  the  bird  from  her  eggs.  These  are  usually 
from  eight  to  twelve  in  number,  as  is  true  of  nearly  all 
ducks,  and  they  are  laid  usually  by  the  middle  of  April, 
sometimes  earlier.  The  nests  of  all  ducks  are  lined 
softly  with  down  which  the  mother  plucks  from  her 
breast.  These  ducks  remain  with  us  in  winter  as  long 
as  they  can  find  water.  I  have  seen  them  swimming 
in  brooks  in  the  swamps  when  the  ponds  were  frozen 
over. 

There  is  one  other  species  which  breeds  in  all  our 
Eastern  States,  the  beautiful  Wood  or  Summer  Duck. 
The  drake  is  one  of  the  most  gorgeously  beautiful  of 
all  our  native  birds.  It  is  deplorable  that  they  are 
decreasing  so  rapidly  as  to  be  on  the  brink  of  extermina- 
tion. Some  states  are  entirely  prohibiting  their  being 
264 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

shot  for  terms  of  years,  and  this  should  be  done  in  all. 
A  few  pairs  still  remain  in  the  locality  where  I  live, 
and  it  is  very  interesting  to  run  across  them  from  time 
to  time.  They  feed  in  the  ponds  and  swamps,  but 
when  it  comes  to  nesting,  they  are  very  different  from 
the  Black  Duck,  for  they  resort  to  hollow  trees,  and 
apparently  are  liable  to  go  almost  anywhere.  Their 
favorite  choice  seems  to  be  an  old  hollow  apple  tree  in 
an  orchard.  In  certain  orchards  they  nest  year  after 
year.  Becoming  familiar  with  man,  particularly  if 
not  disturbed,  they  grow  very  bold  and  select  the 
strangest  sort  of  places  for  nesting-sites. 

By  all  odds  the  most  remarkable  incident  of  this 
sort  in  my  experience  was  when  a  pair  selected  a  barn. 
The  female  would  go  through  a  broken  clapboard  into 
the  hayloft.  Scooping  a  hollow  in  the  top  of  the  hay- 
mow, she  lined  it  with  her  down  and  laid  ten  eggs. 
While  she  was  laying,  the  owner  of  the  place  would 
see  the  happy  pair  at  daybreak  perched  on  the  ridge- 
pole of  the  barn,  making  love.  In  another  barn  a  nest 
was  begun,  but  the  birds  were  driven  off.  Another 
pair  chose  a  hollow  in  a  maple  tree  bordering  the  road, 
within  a  few  rods  of  a  house.  The  hole  was  only  about 
five  feet  from  the  ground,  and  most  of  the  neighbors 
knew  of  the  nest,  and  would  look  in  as  they  went  by. 
Still  another  odd  nesting-site  came  to  my  notice.  Near 
where  I  live  a  farmer  had  a  pig-pen  just  back  of  his 
house,  and  in  it  grew  a  hollow  apple  tree.  On  the 
eleventh  of  April  this  tree  was  cut  down,  and  it  was 
265 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

discovered  that  in  the  hollow  trunk  were  eleven  fresh 
eggs  of  the  Wood  Duck. 

That  same  spring  there  was  a  legislative  hearing 
regarding  the  abolition  of  spring  shooting  of  wildfowl 
in  the  State,  the  existing  law  allowing  shooting  up  to 
the  first  of  May.  Speaking  for  the  proposed  change, 
I  showed  by  this  instance  and  others  the  folly  and 
enormity  of  a  law  which  allowed  these  valuable  and 
fast  disappearing  birds  to  be  shot  when  they  actually 
had  eggs.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  the  obnoxious  law 
was  repealed,  and  all  shooting  forbidden  after  the  first 
of  January,  which  is  as  it  should  be.  The  wildfowl 
mate  very  early  in  the  spring,  or  even  in  winter.  In 
the  spring  the  mated  birds  are  tame  and  easily  shot. 
Moreover,  they  are  usually  in  poor  flesh  at  this  time  and 
almost  worthless  as  food.  At  any  rate,  it  is  a  case  of 
killing  the  goose  that  lays  the  golden  egg,  and  every 
bird-lover  ought  to  use  all  influence  against  such 
atrocities  as  spring  shooting,  and  in  every  way  take  a 
public-spirited  stand  for  the  preservation  of  all  our 
beautiful  harmless  wild  life,  the  existence  of  which  adds 
so  great  charm  to  the  outdoor  world.  As  I  heard  it 
well  put  by  a  teacher  at  the  legislative  hearing,  "Why 
have  not  we,  who  are  as  fond  of  birds  as  you  hunters, 
just  as  much  right  to  demand  that  we  shall  have  birds 
to  see  and  study  as  you  to  demand  that  you  shall  have 
them  to  shoot?" 

There  are  various  other  ducks  which  drop  into  our 
ponds  and  rivers  from  time  to  time,  especially  in 
266 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

migration,  which  must  at  least  be  mentioned,  though 
their  numbers  are  but  small.  Some  of  these  casual 
migrant  visitors  are,  for  instance,  the  fine  large  Mallard, 
which  is  more  of  a  Western  species;  the  Pintail,  Bald- 
pate,  and  Gadwall,  which  are  grayish,  rather  nonde- 
script in  the  fall  plumage,  when  we  generally  see  them, 
and  hard  to  tell  apart;  the  Red-head,  somewhat 
similar  to  the  larger,  whiter  and  rarer  Canvasback, 
which  latter  is  now  very  rare  with  us;  the  curious 
little  Ruddy  Duck,  a  tame  brownish  bird,  with  a  stiff 
tail,  now  and  then  appearing  in  flocks,  which  are  soon 
shot  off;  those  miniature  ducks,  the  Blue-winged  and 
Green-winged  Teals,  delightful,  sprightly  little  people, 
all  too  scarce.  The  Greater  and  Lesser  Scaups,  or 
Blue-bills,  sometimes  flock  in  to  the  larger  ponds  or 
lakes  late  in  the  fall,  when  we  may  also  see  the  Ameri- 
can Golden-eye,  or  Whistler,  which  makes  a  pleasing 
a3olian-harp  humming  sound  with  its  wings  as  it  flies. 
Its  small  near  relative,  the  Bufflehead,  I  used  to  see, 
but  less  often  of  late  years.  A  heavy  easterly  gale  in 
October  and  November  will  often  drive  in  certain  sea 
ducks  from  the  ocean  to  ponds  far  inland.  Such  are 
the  three  large  black  or  dusky  species  called  Scoters — 
the  Surf,  White-winged  and  American  Scoter — and  the 
black  and  white,  noisy  "Old  Squaw,"  or  Long-tailed 
Duck.  I  remember  one  storm,  in  the  middle  of  one 
October,  which  drove  hundreds  of  these  sea  ducks 
into  ponds  a  hundred  miles  from  the  coast. 

Besides  the  above  there  are  also  three  species  classed 
267 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

as  Fish  Ducks,  or  Shelldrakes,  species  with  long  serrated 
bills,  well  adapted  to  seizing  fish.  They  are  the  Red- 
breasted  Merganser,  the  Goosander,  and  the  Hooded 
Merganser,  that  being  the  order  of  their  abundance. 
The  first  two  are  quite  often  seen  from  November  to 
April  in  rivers  or  ponds,  and,  when  these  partly  freeze 
up,  in  air  holes,  or  even  on  the  ice.  In  winter  they  are 
grayish  birds  above,  and  white  beneath,  with  white  on 
the  wings.  The  head  is  crested,  brown  usually,  but 
the  heads  of  the  males  change  to  a  dark  green  in  early 
spring. 

All  these  marine  or  Fish  Ducks  are  poor  eating, 
despite  the  best  of  cooking  and  parboiling,  but  with 
ordinary  culinary  methods  they  are  impossible.  On  a 
southern  yachting  cruise  one  of  our  party  shot  two 
Red-breasted  Shelldrakes,  which  the  darky  steward 
served  up  for  dinner,  as  he  would  have  done  Mallards 
or  Canvasbacks.  Each  man  got  the  first  mouthful  at 
about  the  same  time,  and  there  was  a  simultaneous 
scramble  for  the  hatchway  to  dispose  thereof.  The 
remainder  was  promptly  fed  to  the  fishes,  and  we 
indulged  no  more  in  roast  shelldrake! 

There  is  but  one  species  of  wild  goose  which  we  can 
expect  to  visit  us  inland,  the  Canada  Goose,  which  we 
ordinarily  see  in  wedge-shaped  flocks  in  early  spring 
or  late  fall,  gliding  along  with  measured  wing-beats, 
and  honking  forth  those  wild  calls  that  send  thrills 
through  everyone  who  is  capable  of  being  stirred  by 
the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  wilds.  Sometimes  they 
268 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

descend  into  the  ponds,  and  there  is  a  scurrying  among 
the  gunners.  I  have  found  their  nests  out  in  the  wilder 
parts  of  the  Northwest,  and  there  studied  them  as  there 
is  little  chance  to  do  here  in  civilization. 

People  usually  think  of  the  graceful  and  beautiful 
gulls  and  terns  as  being  found  only  by  the  sea.  In  the 
East  this  is  mainly  true,  but  in  the  Northwest  many  of 
the  marshy  or  alkaline  lakes  fairly  teem  with  a  number 
of  kinds.  But  with  us  in  the  inland  country  town  all 
we  can  hope  for  is  to  see  a  straggler  now  and  then,  if 
we  have  any  ponds  or  lakes  of  fair  size.  In  the  early 
fall  we  may  occasionally  see  a  tern,  probably  the  Com- 
mon Tern,  a  white  bird,  about  the  size  of  a  pigeon, 
gray  on  the  back,  and  black-capped,  whose  long  narrow 
wings  move  rapidly  as  it  darts  about,  plunging  headlong 
into  the  water  after  the  small  bait  fish  upon  which  it 
lives.  Now  and  then  the  Black  Tern,  a  smaller, 
slaty-colored  bird  of  similar  form  and  habits,  may 
appear.  Later  in  the  season,  about  November,  an 
occasional  gull  may  winnow  about  the  lakes.  Probably 
it  will  be  a  Herring  Gull,  or  perhaps  the  Ring-billed 
Gull,  a  trifle  smaller.  These  are  both  much  larger 
than  terns,  of  heavier  build  and  slower  in  motions. 
Adults  are  mainly  white,  while  the  younger  birds  are 
brown  in  their  first  autumn  and  gray  in  their  second. 
A  good  time  for  the  dweller  inland  to  watch  the  gulls 
is  when  visiting  some  seaport  city  like  New  York, 
from  November  to  April.  Go  down  to  the  wharves 
or  out  in  a  ferry  boat,  and  one  will  see  more  gulls  in  an 
269 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

hour  than  in  the  home  town  in  ten  lifetimes.  How- 
ever, I  have  seen  them  flying  over  the  hill  towns  in 
midwinter,  high  up  in  the  air,  probably  migrating  to 
some  distant  body  of  water. 

Perhaps  the  most  satisfactory  of  our  water-birds  to 
actually  see  and  watch  are  the  peculiar  tribe  of  diving- 
birds  considered  as  the  lowest  of  our  forms  of  bird- 
life,  the  loons  and  grebes.  Of  these  we  may  hope  to 
meet  in  our  ponds  one  species  of  the  former  and  three 
of  the  latter.  The  common  Loon,  or  Great  Northern 
Diver,  is  the  splendid  big  fellow,  as  large  as  a  goose, 
which  we  note  some  morning  floating  on  the  placid 
lake.  Now  and  then  it  dives  below  the  surface,  and  after 
a  minute  or  so,  which  seems  a  long  time  to  hold  one's 
breath,  comes  up  quite  a  distance  away.  They  breed 
from  northern  New  England  northward,  and  we  see 
them  on  their  migrations,  mostly  in  the  fall.  They  are 
not  apt  to  rise  on  wing  and  leave  the  pond  by  day,  but 
under  cover  of  night,  as  their  wings  are  small  for  the 
size  and  weight  of  their  bodies,  and  they  do  not  attempt 
to  fly  oftener  than  necessary.  Their  cries  sound  like 
a  sort  of  wild  laughter,  "ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,"  and  so  the 
saying  has  come  into  use,  "crazy  as  a  loon."  One 
hears  these  sounds  mostly  at  night  or  i%  threatening 
weather,  and  they  certainly  sound  weird  enough. 

Of  the  grebes  which  come  into  fresh  Eastern  waters, 

the  largest  and  scarcest  is  the  HolboelPs,  or  Red-necked 

Grebe,  which  is  nearly  as  large  as  a  duck.     The  other 

two  are  smaller,  about  the  size  of  teal — the  Horned 

270 


Red-breasted  Merganser.     "Quite  often  seen  in  rivers  and  ponds"  (p.  268). 


The  Horned  Grebe  in  the  brook.     "Giving  me  splendid  camera  shots"  (p.  272). 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

Grebe,  and  the  Pied-billed  Grebe  or  Dabchick.  The 
Horned  Grebe  is  so  called  because  in  the  spring  plumage 
it  has,  particularly  the  male,  a  sort  of  muff  of  long 
feathers  on  its  head,  some  of  which  stick  up  like  little 
horns.  They  are  otherwise  strikingly  colored  with 
varied  rich  browns  and  black,  but  in  autumn  they  are 
reduced  to  plain  gray  back  and  white  breast.  The 
Dabchick,  which  is  by  far  the  commoner  of  the  three, 
:an  be  distinguished  by  its  browner  upper  breast,  and, 
in  spring,  its  plainer  garb.  Most  of  the  grebes  seen 
will  prove  to  be  this  latter.  The  time  to  expect  them 
is  during  May  and  in  September  and  October.  They 
look  so  pretty,  floating  on  the  surface  of  the  pond,  often 
among  lily  pads,  dabbling  in  the  water  with  the  bill. 
Usually  we  see  each  bird  alone,  but  they  are  apt  to 
migrate  in  small  flocks,  and  tlu  other  members  of  the 
party  are  probably  scattered  cibout  the  pond,  perhaps 
hiding  in  the  reeds  along  the  margin,  or  crawled  out 
upon  the  shore  to  sun  themselves  and  preen  their 
feathers.  They  do  this  last  also  when  afloat,  and  we 
can  see  them  turn  over  on  one  side  to  get  at  the  lower 
feathers,  and  the  silky  white  under-parts  will  flash  in 
the  sun.  It  is  even  harder  for  them  than  for  the  loon 
to  fly,  for  their  wings  are  very  small,  and  they  likewise 
migrate  by  night.  They  are  great  divers,  and  if 
alarmed  will  plunge  or  sink  into  the  depths,  come  up 
a  long  way  off,  stick  out  only  the  bill  for  a  breath  of  air, 
sink  again,  and  get  out  of  sight  without  showing  them- 
selves even  once.  Knowing  their  powers  they  are  not 
271 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

very  shy,  and  will  not  fly  away  as  would  wild  ducks 
when  we  approach.  So  we  may  quietly  watch  the 
grebe  from  the  shore,  and,  especially  if  one  has  a  strong 
field  glass,  it  is  a  beautiful  sight.  The  popular  name 
of  "Water  Witch"  is  c,  tribute  to  the  tribe's  aquatic 
skill. 

Though  out  in  the  West  I  have  seen  thousands  of 
these  grebes,  and  others,  in  their  breeding  colonies,  I 
never  had  a  better  chance  to  observe  one  intimately 
than  one  May  right  at  home.  A  pair  of  Horned  Grebes 
alighted  in  a  brook,  but  could  not  fly  out,  because,  with 
their  small  wings,  they  require  a  lot  of  room  to  flutter 
and  patter  over  the  water  in  getting  started.  One  of 
them  disappeared,  but  the  other  stayed  in  the  part  of 
the  brook  near  a  house  with  a  flock  of  tame  ducks.  A 
netting  had  been  placed  at  the  upper  end  to  keep  the 
ducks  from  swimming  upstream,  and  below  there  was 
a  bridge,  under  which  the  bird  apparently  did  not  like 
to  go.  The  brook  was  hardly  two  feet  wide,  and  Ned 
and  I  went  there  for  several  days  and  watched  and 
photographed  His  Majesty.  When  we  approached, 
the  pretty  fellow,  a  male  in  fine  plumage,  would  dive 
and  paddle  off  under  water  like  a  streak,  and  it  was 
so  shallow  that  he  was  in  plain  sight,  and  we  saw  that 
he  used  only  his  feet,  not  the  wings,  as  propellers. 
Sometimes  he  would  flutter  along  the  surface  of  water, 
and  then  dive.  After  a  time  he  became  used  to  us,  so 
I  would  sit  quietly  on  the  bank  with  the  reflecting 
camera,  while  Ned  would  make  him  swim  back  and 
272 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

forth  past  me,  giving  me  splendid  camera  shots.  Then 
he  would  float  quietly,  a  little  apart  from  the  ducks, 
preen  his  feathers,  flap  his  wings,  or  dive  and  chase 
small  fish.  We  could  see  him  darting  after  them  with 
great  eagerness,  now  this  way,  now  that. 

Finally  we  stretched  a  mesh  of  chicken  wire  for  a  net 
across  the  brook.  ,  Ned  chased  the  grebe  into  the  wire, 
and  I  seized  him  as  he  was  struggling  to  get  through. 
When  I  took  him  out  of  water  he  would  wave  his 
muscular  paddles  so  fast  that  they  fairly  blurred  to  our 
sight.  These  join  the  body  down  by  the  tail,  so  that 
the  grebe  must  walk  almost  upright.  He  made  awk- 
ward work  of  it  on  land,  falling  flat  when  he  tried  to 
run.  After  photographing  him,  we  boxed  him  up  and 
expressed  him  to  the  Bronx  Zoological  Park,  in  New 
York  City,  where  I  think  he  lived  very  happily  with  a 
mate  they  happened  to  have  for  him. 

This  brings  me  to  the  end  of  the  pleasant  task  of 
telling  in  a  familiar  way  of  the  pleasure  which  I,  by 
myself,  or  in  the  lively,  cheerful  company  of  a  boy,  or 
of  others,  have  found  in  following  up  the  birds  of  a 
typical  country  region  and  becoming  better  and  better 
acquainted  with  them.  I  hope  that  Ned  may  find 
bird-study  a  life-long  delight  and  means  of  health  and 
vigor,  as  I  have  done,  and  with  him  a  host  of  others — 
boys  and  girls,  men  and  women. 

This  is  not  saying  that  there  are  not  a  great  many 
other  interesting  things  hi  life.  Indeed,  as  for  myself, 
I  am  not  a  mere  bird-specialist,  but  am  interested  in 
273 


WATER-BIRD   WAIFS 

various  other  lines,  aside  from  bird-study  and  my 
regular  profession,  such,  for  instance,  as  music.  I  do 
think,  however,  that  it  is  a  great  advantage  for  everyone 
to  have  some  sort  of  avocation,  certainly  at  least  one 
outdoor  hobby,  for  the  sake  of  health,  and  in  any  case 
a  deep  and  abiding  love  of  the  beauties  and  glories  of 
Nature,  which  makes  for  the  strengthening  of  power 
of  observation,  the  broadening  and  deepening  of  the 
life,  and  the  cultivation  of  a  spirit  of  calmness,  optimism 
and  buoyancy,  which,  if  gained,  will  keep  one  in  spirit 
ever  young. 

All  too  long,  notably  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  there  has  run  riot  a  craze  for  the 
slaughter,  for  one  purpose  or  other,  of  all  the  wild  bird 
and  animal  life  of  this  country.  Some  valuable  and 
interesting  species  have  been  exterminated,  and  others 
are  all  but  gone.  Surely  it  is  high  time  to  call  a  halt! 
Fortunately,  during  recent  years,  and  notably  in  the 
last  two  decades,  there  has  set  in  a  mighty  tide  of  in- 
terest in  these  wild  creatures — of  sympathetic  study  of 
their  habits,  of  kindness  to  them  and  of  laws  for  their 
protection.  The  more  universal  this  humane  sentiment 
becomes,  the  better  for  our  beautiful  and  harmless  wild 
life,  and  the  enjoyment  of  it  by  increasing  multitudes. 
Many  factors  aid  in  the  spread  of  this  movement,  min- 
imizing the  desire  to  kill  and  multiplying  enjoyment  of 
wild  bird  and  animal  life  unharmed  and  at  peace  in 
natural  surroundings,  not  the  least  of  which  is  already 
proving  to  be  "the  sport  of  bird  study." 
274 


THE   BIRD-HOUSE  OF  SCIENCE 

AND 

A  BIRD  CALENDAR 


THE  BIRD-HOUSE  OF  SCIENCE 

OF  NORTHEASTERN  NORTH  AMERICA 

SIMPLIFIED  FOR  THE  BEGINNER, 
WITH  ONLY  POPULAR  ENGLISH  NAMES 


A.— SWIMMING  BIRDS 

I.    ORDER  OF  DIVING  BIRDS. 

1.  Grebe  Family. 

2.  Loon  Family. 

3.  Auk,  Murre  and  Puffin  Family. 

II.    ORDER  OF  LONG-WINGED  SWIMMERS. 

1.  Jaeger  Family. 

2.  Gull  and  Tern  Family. 

III.  ORDER  OF  TUBE-NOSED  SWIMMERS. 

1.  Petrel  and  Shearwater  Family. 

IV.  ORDER  OF  FOUR-TOES-WEBBED  SWIMMERS. 

1.  Gannet  Family. 

2.  Cormorant  Family. 

V.    ORDER  OF  GOOSE-LIKE  SWIMMERS,  OR  WILDFOWL. 

1.  Duck,  Goose  and  Swan  Family. 

B.— WADING  BIRDS 

I.    ORDER  OF  HERON-LIKE  WADERS. 

1.  Heron,  Egret  and  Bittern  Family. 

II.    ORDER  OF  MARSH-DWELLING  WADERS. 
1.  Rail,  Gallinule  and  Coot  Family. 

277 


THE    BIRD-HOUSE    OF    SCIENCE 

III.    ORDER  OF  SHORE-DWELLING  WADERS,  OR  SHORE- 
BIRDS. 

1.  Phalarope  Family. 

2.  Snipe  and  Sandpiper  Family. 

3.  Plover  Family. 

4.  Oystercatcher  Family. 

C.— LAND  BIRDS 

I.    ORDER  OF  GALLINACEOUS  OR  HEN-LIKE  BIRDS. 

1.  Grouse  and  Quail  Family. 

2.  Pheasant  Family.     (Introduced.) 

II.    ORDER  OF  PIGEON-LIKE  BIRDS. 

1.  Pigeon  and  Dove  Family. 

III.  ORDER  OF  BIRDS  OF  PREY. 

1.  Vulture  Family. 

2.  Hawk  Family.     (Hawks,  Falcons  and  Eagles.) 

3.  Owl  Family. 

IV.  ORDER  OF  CUCKOO-LIKE  BIRDS. 

1.  Cuckoo  Family. 

2.  Kingfisher  Family. 

V.    ORDER  OF  WOODPECKER-LIKE  BIRDS. 

1.  Woodpecker  Family. 

VI.    ORDER  OF  LONG-WINGED  LAND  BIRDS. 

1.  Nighthawk  and  Whippoorwill  Family. 

2.  Swift  Family. 

3.  Hummingbird  Family. 

VII.    ORDER  OF  PERCHING  BIRDS.     (This  includes  nearly  all 
our  smaller  Land  Birds.) 

1.  Flycatcher  Family. 

2.  Lark  Family. 

3.  Crow  and  Jay  Family. 

4.  Starling  Family.     (Introduced.) 

5.  Blackbird,  Oriole,  Meadowlark  Family. 

278 


THE    BIRD-HOUSE    OF    SCIENCE 

6.  Finch  and  Sparrow  Family,  etc. 

7.  Tanager  Family. 

8.  Swallow  Family. 

9.  Waxwing  Family. 

10.  Shrike  Family. 

11.  Vireo  Family. 

12.  Wood  Warbler  Family. 

13.  Pipit  Family. 

14.  Thrasher  and  Wren  Family. 

15.  Creeper  Family. 

16.  Nuthatch  and  Chickadee  Family. 

17.  Kinglet  and  Gnatcatcher  Family. 

18.  Thrush  and  Bluebird  Family. 


279 


A  BIRD  CALENDAR 


WINTER 

Winter  conditions  begin  with  November  and  last  till  March. 
The  winter  visitors  from  the  North  may  arrive  from  early  Novem- 
ber and  on.  Watch  for  them  among  evergreens,  in  sheltered 
swamps,  in  pastures,  or  on  open  land  where  weeds  have  gone  to 
seed.  These  birds  can  sometimes  be  approached  and  photo- 
graphed with  a  long-focus  reflecting  camera. 

In  woods,  or  along  their  edge,  Northern  hawks  or  owls  may  be 
found,  as  well  as  those  species  which  are  resident.  Flights  of 
the  Snowy  Owl  are  most  apt  to  occur,  if  at  all,  in  early  December, 
particularly  along  the  coast. 

Before  the  snow  gets  too  deep,  explore  heavily  timbered  tracts 
to  look  up  old  nests  of  hawks  and  owls,  which  are  likely  to  be 
occupied  again.  This  will  save  time  when  the  busier  season 
comes.  Look  up  new  timber  tracts.  These  woodland  explora- 
tions in  cold  weather  are  fine,  exhilarating  exercise,  especially  if 
in  hilly  country.  The  wintry  woods  are  interesting. 

Put  out  food  for  birds  around  home.  Hang  up  suet  for 
woodpeckers,  nuthatches  and  the  Chickadee.  Put  trays  of  seed 
under  some  improvised  shelter  for  Juncos,  Tree  Sparrows,  etc. 
If  there  are  quail  in  the  vicinity,  put  put  grain  for  them,  sheltered 
so  that  the  snow  will  not  bury  it.  A  large  pile  of  hayseed  is  good, 
which  can  be  readily  dug  out  and  turned  over  after  each  snowfall. 
By  setting  a  camera  focused  on  these  baits,  with  thread  attached 
to  shutter,  many  a  fine  photograph  may  be  secured. 

From  the  latter  part  of  January  and  through  February  locate 
by  the  hootings  of  the  large  owls  the  part  of  the  woods  which  they 
frequent,  for  there  they  will  probably  nest. 
280 


A   BIRD    CALENDAR 

Regular  daily  exercise  in  the  open  air  throughout  the  winter 
is  the  best  prevention  for  colds  and  pulmonary  diseases,  and  will 
keep  one  in  fine,  vigorous  condition.  In  this  way  alone  the  sport 
of  bird  study  would  save  thousands  of  lives,  giving  an  interesting 
incentive  to  exercise  outdoors. 

SPRING 

Spring  is  the  harvest  time  for  photographing  birds,  in  which 
the  nesting  season  gives  by  far  the  greatest  opportunities,  notably 
the  last  week  of  May  and  the  first  three  of  June.  Incubation  and 
rearing  of  young  lasts  from  slightly  over  three  weeks  with  the 
smaller  birds  to  over  two  months  with  large  ones  like  hawks  or 
owls. 

MARCH  (first  half).  The  first  harbinger  of  spring,  the  Great 
Horned  Owl,  deposits  its  eggs  from  the  last  of  February  to  the 
early  days  of  March,  seldom  later,  and  is  ready  (?)  to  be  photo- 
graphed. Bluebirds,  Song  Sparrows,  Robins  and  Red-winged 
Blackbirds  arrive,  early  or  late,  according  to  the  weather. 

MARCH  (last  half).  The  Barred  Owl  lays  from  the  middle  of 
the  month  to  early  April.  Early  in  this  period  expect  the  Fox 
Sparrow,  Meadowlark,  Rusty  Blackbird,  Cowbird  and  Wood- 
cock, and  somewhat  later  therein  the  Kingfisher,  Grackle,  Phoebe, 
Mourning  Dove,  Wilson's  Snipe,  Swamp  and  Field  Sparrows, 
with  Cedar  birds,  wild  ducks  and  Canada  Geese  in  flocks.  Be 
keen  to  get  the  first  records  of  the  season  for  the  birds'  arrivals, 
and  the  last  ones  of  their  departures. 

APRIL  (early).  Red-tailed  Hawk  and  Woodcock  lay,  also 
Long-eared,  Screech  and  Saw-whet  Owls,  and  some  of  the  Red- 
shouldered  Hawks.  A  few  more  arrivals  straggle  in,  such  as  the 
Ruby-crowned  Kinglet  and  more  of  the  hardier  Golden-crown, 
which  also  winters,  Vesper  and  Savanna  Sparrows,  Purple  Finch, 
Myrtle  and  Yellow  Palm  Warblers,  Great  Blue  Heron,  American 
Pipit.  Various  ducks,  the  Loon,  and  the  Holboell's  Grebe  are 
in  transit,  and  may  visit  any  inland  waters. 

APRIL  (middle).  Most  of  the  Red-shouldered  Hawks  have 
laid  by  this  time,  also  the  Dusky  Duck.  Bluebirds,  Crows  and 
281 


A'   BIRD    CALENDAR 

Robins  also  begin  to  lay.  Notable  arrivals  are  the  Hermit  Thrush, 
Sapsucker,  and  the  first  straggling  swallows — Tree,  Bank  and 
Barn. 

APRIL  (late).  Hairy  Woodpecker,  White-breasted  Nuthatch 
and  Song  Sparrow  lay,  and  quite  a  number  of  birds  arrive — all 
the  swallows,  the  herons,  Whippoorwill,  Chimney  Swift,  Towhee, 
Brown  Thrasher,  Chebec,  and  a  few  warblers,  such  as  Black- 
throated  Green,  Black  and  White,  and  Oven-bird. 

MAY  (first  third).  During  this  time  the  following  hawks  lay 
their  eggs,  usually  finishing  by  the  10th:  Fish,  Cooper's,  Marsh, 
Sparrow,  and  Broad-winged,  the  latter  sometimes  later.  Night 
Heron  colonies  have  eggs  early  in  the  month.  Blue  Jay,  King- 
fisher, Vesper  Sparrow,  Grackles,  Wood  Duck  and  Ruffed  Grouse 
lay — the  latter  sometimes  earlier  and  later,  and  the  Wood  Duck 
sometimes  earlier.  In  this  period  the  great  majority  of  our  smaller 
birds  not  already  mentioned  begin  to  appear.  The  migration  of 
all  the  warblers  is  in  full  progress  by  about  the  10th.  Horned 
and  Pied-billed  Grebes  appear  in  the  ponds  or  streams.  Most 
of  our  small  summer-resident  birds  arrive. 

MAY  (second  third).  The  following  lay  their  eggs:  Swamp, 
Field,  Chipping  and  Savanna  Sparrows,  Meadowlark,  Phoebe, 
Barn  Swallow,  Green  Heron,  Louisiana  Water  Thrush,  Sharp- 
shinned  Hawk.  By  this  time  all  summer  residents  have  arrived. 
The  migration  of  shore-birds  is  at  its  height,  especially,  of  course, 
in  evidence  along  the  coast,  and  likewise  of  the  warblers  and 
small  land-birds  in  general.  At  this  tune  there  are  more  kinds 
and  larger  numbers  of  birds  to  be  seen  than  at  any  other  time  of 
year.  This  is  the  time  of  times  to  detect  rarities,  and  the  bird- 
lover  might  well  wish  to  be  afield  every  minute  and  to  be  multiplied 
a  thousand-fold. 

MAY  (last  third).  Another  contingent  are  now  busy  laying: 
Downy  Woodpecker,  Flicker,  Chickadee,  Purple  Finch,  Brown 
Thrasher,  Wood  Thrush,  Chewink,  Veery,  Spotted  Sandpiper, 
Oven-bird,  and  early  individuals  of  any  of  the  warblers.  The 
migrants  are  disappearing,  the  last  being  the  Blackpoll  Warbler 
in  the  early  days  of  June. 

JUNE.  By  the  first  few  days  of  the  month  nearly  all  the  small 
* 


A   BIRD    CALENDAR 

birds  have  ordinarily  completed  their  sets,  unless  the  season  be 
very  backward,  and  many  individuals  in  the  last  week  of  May. 
The  great  bulk  of  the  small  birds  are  now  incubating,  and  by  the 
10th  many  eggs  are  hatching.  The  month  from  May  25th  to 
June  25th  offers  more  photographic  opportunities  bird-wise  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  year  combined. 

Some  species  which  breed  late  are  the  following:  Kingbird, 
Crested  Flycatcher,  Orchard  Oriole,  about  the  10th;  Vireos  and 
Wrens  are  often  somewhat  late;  Wood  Pewee,  15th  to  20th;  Cedar- 
bird  and  Chimney  Swift  from  20th  to  early  July;  the  Goldfinch 
last  of  all,  usually  the  last  week  in  July  or  first  in  August. 


SUMMER 

Most  of  the  species  have  finished  or  are  finishing  breeding  by 
the  time  of  the  summer  solstice.  A  few,  just  mentioned,  habitually 
breed  in  summer.  Some  whose  eggs  have  been  destroyed  lay  a 
second  litter,  and  others  habitually  rear  two  broods,  in  consequence 
of  which  facts  occupied  nests  in  sparing  numbers  may  be  found 
till  late  in  the  summer.  The  following  species  are  among  those 
which  often  raise  two  broods :  Bob-white,  Phoebe,  Robin,  Catbird, 
Bluebird,  House  Wren,  Yellow-throat,  most  sparrows  and  swal- 
lows, Red-winged  Blackbird,  Meadowlark,  and  various  others 
occasionally. 

By  July  most  of  the  birds  become  silent  and  secretive,  having 
begun  the  molt.  Some  species,  before  migrating  South,  wander 
from  their  breeding  localities,  and  species  unfamiliar  to  a  locality, 
like  certain  Southern  herons,  are  noted  as  far  north  as  New  Eng- 
land or  Nova  Scotia.  From  mid-July  and  on,  the  flocking  of 
certain  species  occurs  preparatory  to  the  migration,  such  as 
Swallows,  Sparrows,  Blackbirds,  Bobolinks,  Nighthawks.  A  few 
migrant  warblers  appear  in  August. 

The   return   migration   of  the   shore-birds   begins   about   the 

middle  of  July,  and  is  at  its  height  in  August.     The  latter  month 

is  a  good  time  to  visit  the  sea-coast  to  study  shore-birds,  Terns,, 

etc.,  and  for  yachting  trips  offshore  among  the  ocean  birds,  such 

283 


A   BIRD    CALENDAR 

as  Shearwaters,  Petrels,  Jaegers,  and  Phalaropes.  Good  localities 
to  find  the  latter  class  are  the  shoals  off  the  southeastern  end  of 
Cape  Cod,  Massachusetts,  or  off  Cape  Sable,  Nova  Scotia.  They 
can  often  be  baited  up  with  fish-livers  close  to  the  vessel  and  be 
successfully  photographed. 

AUTUMN 

Before  autumn  has  really  arrived,  many  of  the  smaller  birds 
have  left  for  the  South.  The  migratory  species  are  now  harder 
to  find  and  to  identify,  being  largely  silent  and  in  dull,  nondescript 
plumage.  Yet  for  all  that  it  is  interesting  to  be  afield  and  to  keep 
tally  on  the  migration,  recording  dates  of  first  and  last  appearance 
of  all  species  observed.  If  done  in  friendly  rivalry  with  others, 
this  is  very  interesting,  and  it  is  a  joy  to  exercise  in  the  cool  air 
amid  the  glories  of  autumn  colors. 

By  the  latter  part  of  September,  migratory  ducks  and  grebes 
begin  to  appear  on  the  various  bodies  of  water,  and  during  Octo- 
ber the  duck  migration  is  at  its  height.  Late  October  and  early 
November  bring  many  Northern  sea-birds  along  the  coast,  some 
of  which  occasionally  stray  into  inland  lakes.  A  trip  to  the  sea- 
coast  at  this  time  among  the  hordes  of  wildfowl  is  a  delight.  The 
sea  in  an  autumnal  or  wintry  hurricane — what  is  grander! 

Autumn  is  the  shooting  season  for  wild  game.  If  you  shoot, 
be  content  with  a  few  game  morsels  for  the  table,  and  disdain  to 
be  so  low-minded,  in  these  days  of  growing  scarcity  of  game,  as 
to  glory  in  a  big  bag.  Learn  to  enjoy  the  pursuit  more  than  the 
killing,  the  live  wild  creature  in  all  its  natural  glory  more  than  the 
dead  trophy.  Try  for  wildfowl  and  big  game  photographs,  and 
as  much  as  possible,  let  the  camera  usurp  in  your  heart  the  altar 
formerly  consecrated  to  the  gun. 


284 


INDEX 


Baldpate,  267 

Bittern,  American,  260-1 

Least,  261 
Blackbird,  Cow,  151 

Crow,  153-4 

Red-winged,  152-3 

Rusty,  155 

Swamp,  152-3 
Bluebill,  267 
Bluebird,  97,  245-8 
Blue  Peter,  259 
Bobolink,  150-1 
Bob-white,  23-6 
Bufflehead,  267 
Bull-bat,  104 
Bunting,  Cow.    See  Cowbird. 

Indigo.     See  Indigo-bird. 

Snow,  157,  163-1 
Butcher-bird,  197-8 
Buzzard,  Turkey,  56 

Canary,  Wild,  162,  223 

Canvasback,  267 

Cardinal,  157,  175 

Catbird,  230,  236-7 

Cedar-bird,  194-6 

Chat,  Yellow-breasted,  209,  217,  222 

Chebec,  134-5 

Chewink,  157,  172-3 

Chickadee,  130,  165,  243-4 

Carolina,  244 

Hudsonian,  244 
Coot,  American,  259 
Cowbird,  151-2,  202-5,  225 
Crane,  Blue,  259 
Creeper,  Black  and  White,  208,  213,  217 

Brown,  242,  245 
Crossbill,  157,  160 

American,  160 

Red,  160 

White-winged,  160-1 


Crow,  American,  64,  139-43 
Cuckoo,  Black-billed,  77-81 
Yellow-billed,  81 

Dabchick,  271 

Dove,  Mourning,  32-3 

Duck,  Black,  1,  2,  263-4 

Dusky,  1,  2,  263-4 

Greater  Scaup,  267 

Lesser  Scaup,  267 
Duck,  Long-tailed,  267 

Ruddy,  267 

Summer,  or  Wood,  1,  2,  264-6 

Eagle,  Bald,  53 

Golden,  54 
Egret,  American,  263 

Finch,  Pine.    See  Siskin. 

Purple,  157,  162,  194,  207 
Flicker,  74,  87-94 
Flycatcher,  Acadian,  134 

Alder,  135-8 

Crested,  128-9 

Least,  134-5 

Olive-sided,  133 

TraiU's,  135 

Yellow-bellied,  134 

Gadwall,  267 
Gallinule,  Florida,  259 
Gnatcatcher,  Blue-gray,  244 
Golden-eye,  American,  267 
Goldfinch,  American,  118,  157,  162-3 
Goosander,  268 
Goose,  Canada,  268-9 
Goshawk,  American,  54-5 
Grackle,  Bronzed,  153 

Purple,  153 
Grebe,  Holboell's,  270-1 

Horned,  270-3 

Pied-billed,  270-1 


i 


INDEX 


Grosbeak,  Evening,  160 

Pine,  157,  159,  161-2 

Rose-breasted,  157,  173-4,  193 
Grouse,  Ruffed,  13,  26-31,  54 

Pinnated,  32 
Gull,  American  Herring,  269 

Ring-billed,  269 

Hawk,  American  Rough-legged,  54 

American  Sparrow,  53-4 

Broad-winged,  35-17,  88 

Cooper's,  36-7,  47,  51-2,  55,  88,  219 

Fish,  53 

Hen,  55 

Marsh,  53 

Pigeon,  53 

Red-shouldered,  48,  51,  63 

Red-tailed,  48-51,  54,  88 

Sharp-shinned,  51-2,  55,  222 

Sparrow,  53-4 
Hen,  Heath,  32 

Marsh,  259 

Mud,  259 

Prairie,  32 
Heron,  Black-crowned  Night,  260 

Great  Blue,  259-60 

Green,  261-3 

Little  Blue,  263 

Yellow-crowned  Night,  263 
High-hole,  87 
Hummingbird,  Ruby-throated,  111-23 

Indigo-bird,  157,  174 

Jay,  Blue,  144-6 
Junco,  165-7 

Kildeer,  253 
Kingbird,  124-8 
Kingfisher,  Belted,  82-6 
Kinglet,  Golden-crowned,  244-5 
Ruby-crowned,  244-5 

Lark,  Horned,  146 

Prairie  Horned,  147 

Shore,  146 

Longspur,  Lapland,  164-5 
Loon,  270 

Mallard,  267 
Martin,  Purple,  186-7 


Meadowlark,  147-8 

Western,  148 
Merganser,  American,  268 

Hooded,  268 

Red-breasted,  268 
Mockingbird,  237-8 
Mud-hen,  259 

Nighthawk,  102-4,  109-11 
Nuthatch,  Red-breasted,  242 
White-breasted,  242-3 

Old  Squaw,  267 
Oriole,  Baltimore,  148-9 

Orchard,  149-50 
Osprey,  American,  53 
Oven-bird,  89,  102,  208-9,  217,  227-8 
Owl,  Barn,  68 

Barred,  58-63,  69,  75,  97 

Great  Gray,  75 

Great  Horned,  33,  58,  60-1,  69,  71-2 

Hoot,  4,  58 

Long-eared,  63-8 

Marsh,  68 

Richardson's,  75-6 

Saw-whet,  73-5 

Screech,  69-72 

Short-eared,  68 

Snowy,  75 

Partridge,  27 

Peabody-bird,  168 

Peter,  Blue,  259 

Pewee,  Wood,  129,  132-3 

Phoebe,  129-32,  244 

Pigeon,  Passenger,  32 

Pintail,  71,  267 

Pipit,  American,  229 

Plover,  American  Golden,  253 

Semi  palmated,  253 

Upland,  253 

Quail.    See  Bob-white, 

Rail,  Carolina.    See  Sora. 
Clapper,  259 
King,  259 
Little  Black,  258-9 
Virginia,  256-7 
Yeffow,  258-9 


INDEX 


Redhead,  267 
Redpoll,  157-9 

Redstart,  102,  207-9,  217,  225-6 
Reedbird,  151 
Ring-neck,  253 

Robin,  American,  33,  97,  207,  245-9,  255 
Swamp,  172 


Sandpiper,  Bartramian,  253 

Least,  253 

Semi-palmated,  253 

Solitary,  254 

Spotted,  253-5 

Sapsucker,  Yellow-bellied,  94 
Scoter,  American,  267 

Surf,  267 

White-winged,  267 
Shelldrake,  268 
Shrike,  Northern,  197-8 

Loggerhead,  198 
Siskin,  Pine,  157-8,  160 
Snipe,  Wilson's,  22-3 
Snowbird,  165 
Snowflake,  163 
Sora,  256-7 
Sparrow,  Chipping,  102,  166,  169,  171 

English,  165,  178-9 

Field,  166,  169 

Fox,  166 

Grasshopper,  168,  170 

Henslow's,  168 

Ipswich,  167 

Lincoln's,  166 

Savanna,  167,  170 

Seaside,  167 

Sharp-tailed,  167 

Song,  102,  165-6,  169 

Swamp,  166,  169 

Tree,  165-6 

Vesper,  167,  170 

White-crowned,  168 

White-throated,  168 
Swallow,  Bank,  184-6 

Barn,  178-80 

Chimney,  187 

Cliff.    See  Eave. 

Eave,  178,  181-2 

Rough-winged,  186 

Tree,  182-4 
Swift,  Chimney,  187-90 


Tanager,  Scarlet,  89,  106,  191-4 
Teal,  Blue-winged,  267 

Green-winged,  267 
Tern,  Black,  269 

Common,  269 
Thrasher,  Brown,  230-6 
Thrush,  Alice's,  245-7 

Bicknell's,  245-6 

Hermit,  245-7 

Louisiana  Water,  210,  217,  220-1 

Olive-backed,  245-7 

Water,  209 

Wilson's,  245-7,  249 

Wood,  102,  194,  245,  247,  249-50 
Titlark,  229 
Titmice,  243 
Towhee,  172-3 
Turkey,  Wild,  32 

Veery,  102,  245-7,  249 
Vireo,  Blue-headed,  198-200 

Red-eyed,  89,  199,  201-5 

Solitary,  198-200 

Warbling,  200-1 

White-eyed,  201 

Yellow-throated,  200 
Vulture,  Turkey,  56 

Warbler,  Bay-breasted,  207-8,  214 
Black  and  White,  208,  213,  217,  226-7 
Blackburnian,  34,  207-8 
Blackpoll,  213-4 

Black-throated  Blue,  208,  217,  219-20 
Black-throated  Green,  207-9,  215,  217, 

221-2 
Blue-winged,  or  Blue-winged  Yellow, 

213,  217 
Cerulean,  214 
Canadian,  209,  212,  217 
Cape  May,  207 

Chestnut-sided,  135,  209,  217,  224-5 
Connecticut,  213 
Golden-winged,  212,  217 
Hooded,  214,  217 
Kentucky,  214,  217 
Magnolia,  207 
Mourning,  213 
Myrtle,  207-9,  214-5 
Nashville,  210,  217-9 
Parula,  207,  209,  217,  223 


INDEX 


iVarbler,  Pine,  213,  215,  217 

Prairie,  213 

Tennessee,  212 

Wilson's,  209 

Worm-eating,  211-2 

Yellow,  207,  209,  213,  217,  223-4 

Yellow-Palm,  212,  215 

Yellow-Redpoll,  212,  215 

Yellow-throated,  214 
Water  Witch,  272 
Waxwing,  Bohemian,  194 

Cedar,  194 
Whippoorwill,  102-9 
Whistler,  267 

\V(xxlcock,  American,  13-22 
Woodpecker,  American  Three-toed,  96 


Woodpecker,  Arctic  Three-toed,  87,  96 

Downy,  94,  96-9 

Golden-winged,  87-94 

Hairy,  94,  96-100 

Pileated,  87,  95-6,  99 

Red-headed,  88,  94-5 
Wren,  Carolina,  240 

House,  238-9 

Long-billed  Marsh,  240-1 

Short-billed  Marsh,  240-1 

Winter,  240 

Yellow-hammer,  87 

Yellow-legs,  Greater,  or  Winter,  253 

Lesser,  or  Summer,  253 
Yellow-throat,  Northern,  209,  217,  228-9 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


• 


DEC  11 1961 


Form  L9-25/n-9,'47(A5618)444 


QL         Job  - 
676       The   sport  of 
-«JS7* — bird-study.  - 
1911 


IEC2-1 


QL 
676 
J57s 
1911 


000870414    0 


